AN  OPEN  QUESTION 


A    NOVEL. 


BY 

JAMES   DE   MILLE, 

AUTHOR    OF 

THE   LADY   OF   THE   ICE,1'    "THE    AMEEICAN   BAKON,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


WITS  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  ALFRED  FREDERICKS. 


NEW  YORK: 
D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY, 

549     &    661     B  ROADWAY. 
1873. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1872,  by 

D.  APPLETON  &  CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — THE   MANUSCRIPT    OF    THE    MONK 

ALOYSIUS  1 

II. — THE  CATACOMBS          ...  5 

III. THE   HIDDEN    TREASURE    OP    THE 

OESARS         ....  9 

IV. A  STROKE  FOR  FORTUNE        .  .          13 

V. VILLENEUVE      .  .  .  .17 

VI. IS  IT  DELIRIUM  ?  .  .22 

VII. — THE  GOLD  CRUCIFIX  .  .         27 

VIII. THE     EBONY     CASKET,     AND     ITS 

STRANGE  CONTENTS          .  .         32 

IX. — A  CURIOUS  FANCY      .  .  .36 

X. THE  FATAL  DRAUGHT  .  .         40 

XI. — DEAD  OR  ALITE  ?  .  .44 

xii. — DR.  BLAKE'S  STRANGE  STORY       .      49 

XIII. MAKING  INQUIRIES     .            .  .55 

XIV. — MRS.  KLEIN        .            .            .  .59 

XV. — INEZ  RECEIVES  A  LETTER    .  .          63 

XVI. FATHER  MAGRATH       .            .  .67 

XVII. — FAMILY  MATTERS         ...          72 

XVIII. MORDAUNT  MANOR      .            .  76 

XIX. — THE  LOST  ONE  FOUND            .  .         80 

XX. AT  HOME              ...  84 

XXI. — BAFFLED  FANCIES       .            .  .88 
XXII. THE    RETURN    OF    ANOTHER  MES 
SENGER          .            .            .  .92 
XXIII. — BLAKE     TAKES     LEAVE     OF  HIS 

FRIENDS         .           .           .  .96 

XXIV. — DESCENSUS  AVERNI  !             .  .100 

XXV.— THE  CITY  OF  THE  DEAD  104 


CHAPTER  PACK 

XXVI. — BETRAYED  ....       108 

XXVII. — FILIAL  AFFECTION      .            .  .112 

XXVIII. — SELF-SACRIFICE          .            .  .116 

XXIX. — A  STRANGE  MEETING             .  .120 

XXX. THE  STORY  OF  INEZ                 .  .124 

XXXI. IN  PRISON           .            .            .  .128 

XXXII. — LIGHT  ON  THE  SITUATION   .  .131 

XXXIII. A  FLIGHT  FOR  LIFE    .            .  .136 

XXXIV. A  FRESH  INVESTIGATION     .  .       139 

XXXV. THE  TWO  BROTHERS                .  .       144 

XXXVI. — RUTHVEN             .            .            .  .148 

XXXVII. HUSBAND  AND  WIFE              .  .152 

XXXVIII. — REVIVING  OLD  ASSOCIATIONS  .       156 

XXXIX. THE  TEMPTER                 .            .  .160 

XL. RENEWING  HIS  YOUTH         .  .       1 64 

XLI. REPENTANCE      .            .            .  .169 

XLII. THE  TWO  FRIENDS       .            .  .173 

XLIII. A  REVELATION              .            .  .177 

XLIV. — ALL  THE  PAST  EXPLAINED  .       182 

XLV. THE  TENDERNESS  OF  BESSIE  .       186 

XLVI. BEFORE  HIS  JUDGE     .            .  .190 

XLVII. DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI      .  .194 

XL VIII. — BACK  TO  LIFE           .         .  .198 

XLIX. MRS.  WYVERNE        .         .  .     202 

L. — A  MOTHER'S  PLOT      .         .  .     206 

LI. A  DISCOVERY  .         .         .  .210 

LII. — CLARA  MORDAUNT    .        .  .214 
LIII. — GOING    TO    PRAY    AT    CLARA'S 

GRAVE  ....      219 

LIV. — CONCLUSION     .  ,      226 


M184155 


AN    OPEN   QUESTION. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   MANUSCRIPT   OF   THE   MONK   ALOYSIUS. 

DR.  BASIL  BLAKE  had  plain  but  com- 
fortable  apartments  in  Paris,  on  the 
third  story,  overlooking  the  busy  Rue  St. 
Honore.  A  balcony  ran  in  front  of  his  win 
dows,  upon  which  he  could  step  out,  when 
ever  he  felt  inclined,  to  watch  the  crowds  in 
the  street  below.  On  the  present  occasion, 
however,  the  balcony  was  deserted,  the  win 
dows  were  closed,  and  Dr.  Blake  was  seated 
in  an  arm-chair,  with  a  friend  opposite  in 
another.  It  was  now  midnight,  but,  late  as 
it  was,  this  friend  had  only  come  in  a  few 
minutes  before  ;  and,  by  the  attitude,  the  ac 
tions,  and  the  words  of  both,  it  was  evident 
that  they  were  intending  to  make  a  night  of 
it.  Bottles,  decanters,  glasses,  cigars,  pipes, 
and  tobacco,  lay  or  stood  upon  the  table;  and 
Dr.  Blake  was  even  now  offering  a  glass  of 
Burgundy  to  his  visitor. 

Dr.  Basil  Blake  was  a  young  man,  with  a 
frank  face,  clear  eyes,  open  and  pleasing  ex 
pression.  His  friend  was  a  fellow-physician 
— Dr.  Phelim  O'Rourke — with  whom  Blake 
had  become  acquainted  in  the  course  of  his 
studies  in  Paris,  and  who,  in  every  respect, 
presented  a  totally  different  aspect  from  his 
own.  He  was  much  older,  being  apparently 
between  forty  and  fifty  years  of  age.  His 
frame  showed  great  muscular  strength  and 
powers  of  endurance.  His  hair  was  curling 
and  sprinkled  with  gray.  His  nose  was 
straight  and  thin.  He  wore  a  heavy  beard 
and  mustache,  which  was  not  so  gray  as  his 
hair,  but  dark,  shaggy,  and  somewhat  neg 


lected.  His  eyes  were  small,  dark,  keen,  and 
penetrating. 

"I  wouldn't  have  bothered  yees  at  this 
onsaisonable  hour,"  said  O'Rourke,  who  spoke 
with  a  slight  Irish  accent,  "  but  the  disclos 
ures  that  I  have  to  make  require  perfect 
freedom  from  interruption,  and  ye  see  ye're 
all  the  time  with  yer  frind  Hellmuth  through 
the  day,  and  so  I  have  to  contint  mysilf  with 
the  night,  ayvin  if  I  were  not  busy  mysilf  all 
through  the  day.  But  the  fact  is,  the  mat- 
ther  is  one  of  the  most  imminse  importance, 
and  so  ye'll  see  yersilf  as  soon  as  ye're  in- 
farrumed  of  what  I  have  to  tell.'  Ye  know 
I've  alriddy  mintioned,  in  a  casual  way,  that 
my  secret  concerruns  money.  Yis,  money ! 
gold !  trisure  ! — and  trisure,  too,  beyond  all 
calculation.  Basil  Blake,  me  boy  !  d'ye  want 
to  be  as  rich  as  an  imperor  ?  Do  ye  want  to 
have  a  rivinue  shuparior  to  Rothschild's  ? 
Have  ye  ivir  a  wish  to  sittle  yersilf  for  life  ? 
Answer  me  that,  will  ye  ?  " 

Saying  this,  O'Rourke  slapped  the  palm 
of  his  hand  emphatically  upon  the  table,  and 
fixed  his  small,  piercing  black  eyes  intently 
upon  Blake. 

"  Oh,  by  Jove  ! "  said  Blake,  with  a  laugh, 
"  you're  going  too  far,  you  know.  Don't  ex 
aggerate,  old  fellow — it  isn't  necessary,  I  as 
sure  you.  Money,  by  Jove  !  I'd  like  to  see 
the  fellow  that  needs  it  more  than  I  do.  I'm 
hard  up.  You  know  that,  don't  you  ?  Don't 
I  owe  you  five  pounds — which,  by-the-way, 
old  chap,  I  shall  be  able  to — " 

"  Tare  an  ages  ! "  interrupted  O'Rourke, 
"  don't  be  afther  talking  about  such  a  paltry 
matther  as  five  pounds.  By  the  powers,  but  I 
ixpict,  if  I  can  only  injuce  ye  to  give  me  a  lift  in 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


my  interprise,  that  before  long  ye'll  look  upon 
five  pounds  as  no  more  than  five  pince,  so  ye 
will,  and  there  ye  have  it." 

"  Go  ahead,  then,  old  fellow ;  for,  by  Jove ! 
do  you  know,  you  make  me  wild  with  curios 
ity  by  all  this  mixture  of  illimitable  treasure 
and  impenetrable  mystery." 

"  Mind,  me  boy,"  said  O'Rourke,  "  I  ask 
nothing  of  ye — only  yer  hilp." 

"  And  that  I'll  give,  you  may  be  sure.  As 
for  any  thing  else,  I'm  afraid  you  can't  get  it 
— not  money,  at  any  rate ;  blood  out  of  a 
stone,  you  know  —  that's  about  it  with 
me." 

O'llourke  bent  his  head  forward,  and  once 
more  fixed  his  keen  gaze  upon  the  frank,  hon 
est  eyes  of  Blake. 

"  It's  in  Rome— that  it  is,"  said  he. 

"  Rome  ?  "  said  Blake. 

"  Yis— the  trisure— " 

"  Rome  ?  ah  !  Well— it's  very  convenient. 
I  was  afraid  it  would  involve  a  voyage  to  Cali 
fornia.  Rome — well,  that's  a  good  beginning 
at  any  rate." 

"  It  is  —  it's  mighty  convanieut,"  said 
O'Rourke.  "Well,  ye  know,  I've  been  in 
Rome  over  and  over,  and  know  it  like  me  na 
tive  town.  I've  been  there  sometimes  on  pro- 
fissional  juties,  sometimes  on  archayological 
interprises,  and  sometimes  on  occasion  of  any 
shuperiminint  ayclisiastical  ayvint.  I  may 
mintiou  also  that  I've  got  a  rilative  living 
there — he's  dead  now — but  that's  nothing  ; 
he  was  second  cousin  to  me  first  wife,  and, 
of  course,  in  a  forryn  country,  such  a  near 
relationship  as  that  brought  us  very  close  to- 
gither,  and  I  attindid  him  profissionally,  free 
of  charge,  on  his  dying-bed.  It  was  from  this 
rilative— Malachi  McFee,  by  name — that  I  ob 
tained  the  inforrumation  that  I'm  going  to 
convey  to  you.  The  poor  divvle  was  a  monk 
in  the  monastery  of  San  Antonio.  I  saw  a 
good  deal  of  him,  off  and  on  ;  and  one  day  he 
had  a  fall  in  the  vaults  of  the  monastery — he 
had  a  very  bad  conchusion  ;  mortification  set 
in,  gangrane,  and  so  forruth — so  he  died,  poor 
divvle.  It  was  on  the  death-bed  of  poor  Mal 
achi  that  I  heard  that  same  ;  and  ye'll  under 
stand  from  that  what  credibility  there  is  in 
the  story,  for  a  man  on  his  death-bed  wouldn't 
be  afther  speakin'  any  thing  but  the  truth,  un 
less  he  could  get  some  real  future  binifit  of 
some  sort  out  of  it,  pecuniarily,  afther  he  Avas 
dead,  or  before,  but  that's  neither  here  nor 
there." 


O'Rourke  paused  here,  and  looked  sharply 
at  Blake. 

"  D'ye  care  to  hear  it  now  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Care  to  hear  it  ?  of  course.  Don't  you 
see  that  I'm  all  ears  ?  " 

"  Yery  well,"  said  O'Rourke,  "  so  here 
goes." 

As  he  spoke,  the  deep  toll  of  a  neighbor 
ing  bell  sounded  out  as  it  began  to  strike  the 
hour  of  midnight.  O'Rourke  paused  again, 
and  listened  silently  to  the  solemn  sound,  as 
one  after  the  other  the  twelve  strokes  rang 
deeply  out  upon  the  still  night  air,  and,  even 
after  the  full  number  had  sounded,  he  sat 
as  though  listening  for  more.  At  length  he 
drew  a  long  breath,  which  sounded  like  a 
deep  sigh. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  said  he,  "  but 
there's  nothing  in  all  the  wide  wurruld  that 
affects  me  like  the  toll  of  a  bell  at  midnight. 
I  moind  me,  it  was  in  such  a  night  as  this, 
and  the  bell  was  tolling  just  this  way,  when 
poor  Malachi  died.  Well— well — he's  dead 
and  gone.  Requiescat  in  pace — 

"  That  same  Malachi,"  continued  O'Rourke, 
"  was,  as  I  said,  a  monk  in  the  monastery  of 
San  Antonio,  at  Rome.  Have  ye  iver  been  in 
Rome  ?  No  ?  Thin  there's  no  use  for  me  to 
tell  you  the  situation  of  the  monastery,  as  ye 
wouldn't  understand.  It's  enough  to  say  that 
Malachi  was  a  monk  there.  Now,  ye  must 
know  that  San  Antonio,  like  many  other  mon 
asteries,  has  a  divvle  of  a  lot  of  old  manu 
scripts  in  the  library — some  copies  of  classics, 
some  thaological,  and  some  original — the  work 
of  the  monks.  This  Malachi  was  one  of  the 
most  erudite  and  profound  scholars  that  I 
iver  saw.  He  had  all  thim  old  manuscripts 
at  his  fingers'  ends — ivery  one  of  thim.  Now, 
what  I  have  to  tell  you  refers  to  one  of  these 
manuscripts,  that  was  hauled  forth  by  poor 
Malachi  out  of  a  forgotten  chist,  and  studied 
by  him  till  he  began  to  think  there  was  in  it 
the  rivilation  of  some  schoopindous  secret. 
It  was  written  in  Latin,  of  course.  Ye  know 
Latin,  I  suppose — a  little.  Yis — yis.  I  know 
what  the  ordinary  iducation  amounts  to,  but 
could  ye  read  a  manuscript  written  in  Latin, 
in  a  crabbed  hand,  full  of  contractions  and 
corrections  ?  I  don't  think  it.  I  have  that 
manuscript,  and  I've  read  it ;  and  I  know  that 
the  number  of  min  who  could  take  up  that 
and  read  it  as  it  stands  is  not  Lagion  by  any 
means.  I  haven't  the  manuscript  here.  It's 
home,  with  my  valuables.  It  isn't  a  thing 


THE  MANUSCRIPT   OF  THE   MONK  ALOYSIUS. 


I'd  carry  about,  but  I've  got  the  substance  of 
it  in  me  mind.  It's  a  modern  manuscript, 
bound  up  like  a  book,  not  much  larger  than 
what  we  call  juodecimo  size,  of  about  a  hun 
dred  pages  of  the  writing  I've  mintioned. 
Now,  the  manuscript  purported  to  have  been 
written  in  the  year  sixteen  hundred  and  tin, 
and  by  all  appearances  had  niver  been  touched 
by  any  hand  since  it  lift  the  author's,  till  poor 
Malachi  drew  it  out  of  the  chist,  but  lay  there 
among  piles  of  others,  neglictid  and  unknown. 
It  purported  to  be  an  account  of  certain  ad- 
vintures  and  discoveries  of  one  Aloysius,  a 
monk  of  San  Antonio,  some  twinty  years  be 
fore,  which  he  had  committed  to  writing,  and 
deposited  in  the  library  of  the  monastery,  so 
as  to  transmit  to  the  future  some  mimorial  of 
things  that  he  did  not  wish  to  have  altogither 
forgotten.  Me  cousin  Malachi  studied  it  all 
over  and  over,  and  he  gave  me  the  book  on 
his  death-bed,  and  told  me  the  whole  contints 
juring  my  attindince  there  before  I  had  iver 
read  a  line  meself.  Now  I'll  just  tell  you  the 
story  of  the  monk  Aloysius,  fust  of  all,  as  it 
was  told  me  by  rne  cousin  Malachi,  and  as  I 
read  it  meself,  and  then  ye'll  begin  to  compre- 
hind  what  I'm  driving  at. 

"  Well,  now,  this  Aloysius  was  a  monk  of 
San  Antonio,  as  I  said.  lie  was  a  quiet,  so 
ber,  religious,  contintid  soul,  according  to  his 
own  showing;  a  good,  average  Christian 
monk,  with  all  his  wants  confined  to  his  own 
cloisthers,  and  no  desires  beyant.  Now  un 
derneath  the  monastery  there  were  thin,  and 
there  are  still  at  this  day,  vast  and  ixtinsive 
vaults,  stritching  underneath  the  whole  idifice, 
and,  in  some  places,  they  are  two  stories  deep. 
Here,  in  these  places,  they  seem  cut  out  of 
some  rocky  substratum  —  the  rock  is  soft 
sandstone,  and  must  have  been  worked  easy 
enough — and,  moreover,  it  was  the  opinion 
of  me  cousin  Malachi,  who  was,  poor  fellow, 
as  I  alriddy  said,  a  divvle  of  an  archayologist, 
that  these  double-storied  excavations  were  the 
work  of  the  ancient  Romans.  Now  it  is  with 
the  mintion  of  these  vaults  that  the  manu 
script  of  Aloysius  begins. 

"  It  seems  that  he  was  sint  down  to  the 
lowermost  vaults  one  day,  in  company  with 
another  monk — Onofrio  by  name — to  remove 
some  wine-casks,  or  overhaul  thim,  or  some 
thing,  whin,  juring  the  course  of  their  labors, 
they  reached  the  rock  forming  the  extreme 
west  end  of  the  vaults ;  and  here,  to  the  sur 
prise  of  both,  they  saw  an  archway,  which  had 


been  walled  up  so  as  to  prevint  any  passing 
through.  The  sight  excited  both  of  thim  im- 
minsely,  and  they  stopped  short  in  their  work, 
and  engaged  in  some  prolonged  argumintation 
as  to  the  probable  use  of  such  a  passage-way. 
They  differred  in  their  opinions:  Aloysius 
holding  that  it  once  was  a  subterranean  pas 
sage-way  to  the  outside  of  the  city,  made  in 
former  ages,  to  be  used  in  case  of  need ;  while 
Onofrio  continded  that  it  was  nothing  more 
than  a  recess,  closed  up  because  it  was  no 
longer  needed ;  or  because,  perhaps,  some  one 
may  have  formerly  been  buried  there.  This 
discussion  excited  thim  both  to  such  a  degree 
that  at  lingth  nothing  would  satisfy  aither  of 
thim  but  an  examination.  Onofrio  was  at  first 
opposed  to  this,  from  the  belief  that  some  one 
had  been  buried  there,  and  he  shrank  from 
the  discovery  of  some  possible  horror  com 
mitted  in  the  course  of  those  rnaydiay  val  ages, 
when  min  were  burnt  alive,  or  buried  alive,  to 
any  ixtint,  and  all  ad  majorcm  Dei  gloriam. 
It  was  the  way  of  the  worruld  in  those  ages, 
and  a  way  that  Onofrio  did  not  wish  to  be  re 
minded  of. 

"  Well,  at  length  they  decided  to  examine 
it  at  once.  Aloysius  was  the  one  who  did  the 
business.  They  had  a  bit  of  a  crowbar  with 
thim,  which  they  had  brought  down  to  move  the 
bar'ls,  and  with  this  he  wint  at  the  wall.  The 
stones  were  small,  and  were  mixed  with  brick ; 
the  mortar  had  become  rotten  and  disinte 
grated  with  the  damp  of  cinterries ;  and  so  it 
was  aisy  enough  work  for  a  brisk  young  lad, 
like  Aloysius  seems  to  have  been  thin.  They 
had  a  couple  of  good-sized  lamps  with  them 
all  the  time,  to  give  light  for  their  work  in 
the  vaults,  ye  know;  and  so,  as  there  was 
plinty  of  oil  in  thim,  they  had  plinty  of  leisure 
for  their  work.  Well,  Aloysius  says  that  he 
worked  away,  and  at  last  had  a  hole  made  big 
enough  to  see  through.  The  wall  had  not 
been  more  than  six  inches  thick,  and  crum 
bling  at  that ;  and,  whin  this  hole  was  made, 
the  rest  followed  quick  enough,  I'll  be  bound. 
Well,  the  ind  of  it  all  was,  that  the  wall  at 
lingth  lay  there,  a  heap  of  rubbish,  at  their 
feet ;  and  there  was  the  open  archway  full  be 
fore  thim,  inviting  thirn  to  inter." 

O'Rourke  now  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine 
for  himself,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  Blake, 
to  see  how  he  felt.  One  look  was  enough  to 
show  him  that  Blake  was  deeply  interested, 
and  was  waiting  very  anxiously  for  the  re 
mainder  of  the  story.  O'Rourke  smacked  his 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


lips  approvingly,  set  down  the  empty  glass 
upon  the  table,  and  continued : 

"  Onofrio  shrank  back.  Aloysius  sprang 
through.  Thin  Onofrio  followed,  somewhat 
timidly.  Both  of  thim  held  their  lights  before 
thim,  to  see  the  size  of  the  interior.  It  was  a 
passage-way  about  four  feet  wide  and  six  feet 
high,  but  the  length  of  it  they  were  unable  to 
see.  Walking  forward  a  few  paces,  they  still 
found  no  ind  visible  as  yet.  Suddenly  Aloy 
sius  saw  something  which  excited  his  attin- 
tion.  It  was  a  slab  of  marble  about  six  feet 
long  and  a  foot  in  width,  fastened  in  the  side 
of  the  passage-way.  There  were  letters  on  it. 
Beyond  this  he  saw  others,  and,  as  he  stared 
around  in  amazement,  he  saw  that  these  slabs 
were  arranged  on  both  sides,  reaching  from 
the  floor  to  the  top  of  the  passage,  one  above 
another,  three  deep,  and  in  some  places  four. 
Upon  this  he  turned  to  his  companion,  and 
said :  *  You're  right,  Onofrio.  This  is  some 
ancient  burial-place  of  the  monks  of  San  An 
tonio.'  Onofrio  said  lathing,  but,  holding  his 
lamp  eagerly  forward,  tried  to  make  out  an 
inscription  that  was  cnt  on  the  marble  slab. 
The  slab  was  much  discolored,  but  the  letter 
ing  was  quite  visible.  These  letters,  however, 
were  apparently  a  mixture  of  different  charac 
ters;  for,  though  he  could  make  out  here  and 
there  one,  yet  others  occurred  in  the  midst  of 
them  with  which  he  was  not  familiar.  The 
Latin  word  IN  could  be  made  out,  and,  on 
another  slab,  he  made  out  IN  PACE.  On  all 
the  slabs  there  was  a  peculiar  monogram 
which  was  unintilligiible  to  them. 

"  '  These  were  all  good  Christians,'  said 
Onofrio ;  '  for  no  others  would  have  "  iu 
pace  "  over  their  graves.' 

"  '  They  roust  have  lived  long  ago,'  said 
Aloysius.  '  And  they  had  a  fashion  of  writ 
ing  that  is  different  from  ours.' 

"  They  walked  on  some  distance  farther. 
The  graves  continued.  They  were  very  much 
amazed,  and,  in  fact,  quite  schupefied  at  the 
imminse  number  which  they  passed,  all  cut 
in  the  walls  of  this  vault,  all  covered  over 
with  marble  slabs.  At  length,  Aloysius,  who 
was  going  first,  uttered  a  cry ;  and  Onofrio, 
who  had  paused  to  try  and  make  out  an  in- 
ecription,  hurried  up.  He  found  Aloysius  at 
a  place  where  their  passage-way  was  crossed 
by  another  passage-way,  which  was  like  it  in 
every  respict — the  same  niches  on  the  walls, 
the  same  marble  slabs,  the  same  kind  of  in 
scriptions.  In  addition  to  this  they  saw  that 


their  own  passage-way  still  ran  on,  and  was 
lost  in  the  darkness.  They  both  saw  that  it 
was  far  more  ixtinsive  than  they  had  ima 
gined. 

"  '  You  were  right,'  said  Onofrio,  '  such  a 
long  passage  as  this  must  be  more  than  a 
burial-place.' 

" '  Be  the  powers,  thin,'  cries  Aloysius, 
'  we're  both  right,  for  it  is  a  burial  -  place, 
and  if  it  don't  go  all  the  way  out  of  the  city, 
then  I'm  a  haythen.' 

"  Well,  they  walked  on  some  distance  far 
ther,  and  thin  they  came  to  three  passage 
ways — in  all  respicts  the  same — no  one  could 
have  told  any  differince — and  it  was  this  that 
made  thim  stop  in  this  fust  ixpidition. 

"  '  Sure  to  glory,'  says  Onofrio,  *  it's  lost 
we'll  be,  if  we  go  any  farther,  for  sorra  the 
bit  of  differ  I  see  betune  this  passage  we're 
in,  and  the  rest  of  thim ;  so  don't  let  us  go 
any  farther,  but  get  back  as  quick  as  we 
can,  while  we  know  our  way.' 

"  At  this  Aloysius  tried  to  laugh  away  his 
fears,  but  without  success.  Onofrio  was 
afraid  of  being  lost — moreover,  Onofrio  was 
superstitious — and  had  got  it  into  his  head 
that  the  place  was  no  other  than  the  general 
bury  ing-ground  of  pagan  Eome.  He  didn't 
know  but  that  the  pagans  buried  their  dead 
like  Christians;  he  wasn't  enough  of  an 
archayologist  to  decipher  the  inscriptions 
around  him  ;  and  he  was  terrified  at  the  spec 
tacle  of  so  many  pagan  graves.  Besides,  in 
addition  to  what  they  had  seen,  the  passages 
leading  away  seemed  to  give  ividince,  or,  at 
least,  indications,  of  an  ixtint  that  was  sim 
ply  schupindous  !  So,  Onofrio  was  bint  on 
going  back,  and  there  was  no  hilp  for  it  but  for 
Aloysius  to  follow.  But  he  swore  to  himsilf 
all  the  same,  that  he'd  go  again  if  he  had  to 
do  it  alone. 

"  So  back  they  wint,  and  Onofrio  wouldn't 
hear  of  stopping  till  they  had  got  back  behind 
the  fust  crossing,  and  then  he  felt  out  of  dan 
ger.  So  here  the  two  of  thim,  having  nothing 
ilse  to  do,  rayzhumed  their  ifforts  to  decipher 
the  inscriptions.  At  length  Onofrio  called  to 
Aloysius.  Aloysius  went  to  where  he  was 
standing.  He  saw  there  a  slab  cut  in  letters 
which  were  all  Roman,  without  any  mixture 
of  those  strange  characters  —  Greek,  no 
doubt  —  that  had  puzzled  thim  before  —  ye 
know  the  monks  in  those  days  often  knew  a 
little  Latin — Latin  being  the  language  of  the 
Church,  and  widely  used  for  colloquial  pur- 


THE   CATACOMBS. 


poses  even  outside  of  the  Church,  at  least  in 
Rouie,  by  foreigners  and  pilgrims — and  so  ye 
see  the  two  of  thim  put  their  heads  togither, 
and  made  it  out.  I  remimber  the  whole  of  it, 
It  wasn't  long — it  was  simple  enough — and  it 
told  its  own  story.  Let  me  see." 

O'Rourke  bent  his  head,  and  seemed  to  be 
recalling  the  words  of  which  he  spoke. 

"Fust,  there  was  a  monogram  which  nai- 
ther  of  thim  understood.  It's  this — ye  know 
it  well  enough." 

Stooping  forward,  O'Rourke  dipped  his 
finger  in  his  wineglass,  and  traced  on  the 
mahogany  table  this  monogram : 


"  Ye  know  that,"  said  he ;  "  it  stands  for 
Christus,  being  the  two  Greek  initial  letters 
*  Ch '  and  '  R.'  It  was  marked  by  the  early 
Christians  on  their  tombs.  Ye  see,  also,  it 
makes  the  sign  of  the  cross.  As  for  the  in 
scription,  it  ran  this  way  somehow,  as  near  as 
I  can  remimber : 

" '  In  Ckristo.  Pax.  Antonino  Imperatore, 
Marius  miles  sanguinem  effudit  pro  Christo. 
Dormit  in  pace? 

"  So  ye  see  by  that,"  continued  O'Rourke, 
after  a  pause,  during  which  he  looked  with 
his  usual  searching  glance  at  Blake,  "  that 
the  place  was  full  of  Christian  tombs.  Ye've 
heard  of  the  Roman  Catacombs.  Well, 
that's  the  place  where  these  two  were,  and 
didn't  know  it,  for  the  reason  that  they  niver 
heard  of  such  a  place. 

"  '  Sure  to  glory  ! '  cried  Onofrio.  '  It's  no 
pagan  burying-ground  at  all,  at  all.  It's 
Christian,  and  we're  surrounded  by  the  blis- 
sed  rilics  of  martyrs  and  saints.  Oh,  but 
won't  the  abbot  be  the  proud  man  this  day 
whin  we  tell  him  this  ! ' 

"'Tare  an  ages,  man!*  cried  Aloysius, 
'ye  won't  be  afther  tellin' him  yit;  wait  till 
we  find  out  more.  Let's  come  again ;  we'll 
bring  a  bit  of  a  string  with  us,  and  unrowl  it 
as  we  go  on,  so  as  not  to  lose  our  way.' 

"  Well,  with  this  agreement  they  left  the 
Catacombs,  got  back  into  the  vaults  of  San 
Antonio,  and,  as  it  was  vesper- time,  they 
rowled  the  bar'ls  against  the  opening  so  as  to 
hide  it,  and  wint  away  to  rezhume  their  ex 
plorations  on  the  following  day." 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE     CATACOMBS. 

"So  ye  see,"  continued  Dr.  O'Rourke, 
"  what  sort  of  a  place  it  was  they  had  stum- 
bled  upon.  It  was  the  most  sacred  spot  on 
earth.  It  was  the  burial-place  of  the  saints 
and  martyrs  that  had  suffered  at  the  hands 
of  the  bloody  pagans — a  holy  place — a  place 
of  pilgrimage ! " 

At  this,  he  crossed  himself  devoutly,  and 
took  a  glass  of  wine. 

"  Well,  the  next  day  the  two  of  thim  wint 
once  more,  and  this  time  Onofrio  was  as  eager 
as  Aloysius.  The  manuscript  doesn't  say 
what  aither  of  them  wished  or  ixpected  to 
find ;  it  simply  states  that  they  were  eager, 
and  that  they  took  with  thim  several  balls 
of  string,  to  unwind  so  as  to  keep  their 
course.  Well,  this  time  they  wint  on  and 
came  to  the  place  which  they  had  reached  on 
the  previous  day.  They  unwound  the  string 
as  they  wint ;  and,  thus  letting  it  out,  they 
passed  boldly  and  confidintly  beyant  the  place 
where  they  had  turruned  back  before.  Going 
on,  they  came  to  passage  afther  passage,  and 
there  was  not  a  pin's  difference  between  any 
one  of  thim  and  any  other.  Well,  at  last 
they  came  to  a  place  where  there  was  a  cross- 
passage,  and  here  an  excavation  had  been 
made,  circular  in  shape,  and  about  twelve 
feet  in  diameter.  This  place  had  a  more 
cheerful  aspict  than  any  thing  that  they  had 
yet  seen,  if  any  thing  can  be  called  cheerful 
in  such  a  place.  The  walls  had  been  covered 
with  stucco,  which  still  remained ;  though 
down  about  a  foot  from  the  floor  it  had  crum 
bled  off.  Over  the  walls  they  saw  pictures 
which  had  been  made  ages  before,  and  still 
kept  their  colors.  These  were  all  pictures  of 
things  as  familiar  to  thim  as  the  streets  of 
Rome.  There  was  Adam  and  Eve  plucking 
the  forbidden  fruit ;  Noah  and  his  ark ; 
Abraham  offering  up  Isaac ;  Jonah  and  his 
whale ;  and  iver  so  many  more  of  a  similar 
chyaracter.  Of  course,  all  this  only  showed 
still  more  clearly  that  the  place  was  a  Chris 
tian  cinotaph,  and  it  was  with  something  like 
riverince  that  they  gazed  upon  these  pict 
ures,  made  by  the  hands  of  saints.  Well, 
then  they  started  to  go  on,  whin  they  sudden 
ly  discovered,  yawning  before  them,  a  wide 
opening  in  the  flure,  or  pavemint.  It  was 
fower  feet  wide,  and  six  long.  Beneath  all 


6 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


was  darkness.  Aloysius  tuk  his  string  and 
lowered  his  lamp.  About  twelve  or  fifteen  feet 
below  he  saw  a  fiure  like  the  one  where  he 
was  standing,  and  a  passage-way  like  those 
around  him.  He  also  saw  slabs  with  in 
scriptions.  By  this  he  knew  that  there  were 
ranges  of  passage-ways  filled  with  tombs  im- 
mejitly  beneath,  no  doubt  as  ixtinsive  as  these 
upper  ones.  The  sight  filled  him  with  schu- 
pefaction.  This  was  the  limit  of  their  second 
attimpt.  The  other  passages  leading  away 
from  what  he  calls  the  'painted  chamber,' 
were  narrow  and  uninvitin' ;  the  lower  pas 
sage-way,  however,  was  broad  and  high,  and 
gave  promise  of  leading  to  a  place  of  shupa- 
rior  importince.  By  this  time  Onofrio  was  as 
full  of  eagerness  as  Aloysius,  and  it  didn't 
need  any  persuasin  to  injuice  him  to  make  a 
further  tower  through  these  vaults  on  anoth 
er  day.  This  time  they  brought  with  thim, 
in  addition  to  their  lamps  and  string,  a  couple 
of  bits  of  ladders  that  Aloysius  had  knocked 
up  for  the  occasion. 

"  Well,  now  came  the  time  of  their  third 
exploration.  They  tuk  their  ladders,  and  de- 
scinded  into  the  lower  passage-way.  Down 
here  they  found  ivery  thing  just  as  it  had 
been  up  above.  In  one  or  two  places  they 
saw,  in  side-passages,  other  openings  in  the 
fiure,  which  gave  ividence  of  another  story 
beneath  this  again,  ^containing,  no  doubt,  the 
same  tombs  ranged  in  the  same  way.  Such 
an  appariently  indless  ixtint  almost  over 
whelmed  them.  Well,  at  last,  whin  they  had 
spun  out  nearly  all  their* string,  they  saw  be 
fore  them  an  opening,  wide  and  dark,  into 
which  their  passage-way  ran.  They  intered 
this  place. 

"  Now  listen,"  said  O'Rourke,  impressive 
ly.  "  This  place  is  described  in  the  manu 
script  of  Aloysius  in  the  most  minute  man 
ner,  just  as  if  he  was  writing  it  down  for  the 
binifit  of  posterity.  It  was  a  vaulted  cham 
ber,  like  the  one  which  they  had  found  be 
fore.  The  walls  were  stuccoed  and  covered 
with  painted  pictures  —  the  dove  with  the 
olive-branch ;  the  mystic  fish,  the  '  Ichthus,' 
the  letters  of  whose  name  are  so  mysterious 
ly  symbolical ;  and  the  portrayal  of  sacred 
scenes  drawn  from  Holy  Writ ;  all  these  were 
on  the  walls.  Now,  this  chamber  was  fower 
times  bigger  than  the  other  one. 

"  You  remimber  that  thus  far  they  had 
found  nothing  loose  or  movable.  What  may 
have  been  in  the  tombs,  of  course  they  could 


not  see.  But  here  all  was  different.  The 
very  first  glance  they  threw  around  showed 
them  a  great  heap  of  things,  piled  up  high  in 
the  far  corroner.  Onofrio  hesitated — for  he 
was  always  superstitious  —  but  Aloysius 
bounded  forward,  and  at  once  began  to  ex 
amine  the  things. 

"  Now,  Blake,  me  boy,  by  the  powers  but 
it's  me  that  don't  know  how  to  begin  to  tell 
you  this  that  they  found  !  Whin  I  read  about 
this  in  the  manuscript — when  I  saw  it  there 
in  black  and  white — tare  an  ages ! — but  I 
fairly  lost  me  breath.  What  d'ye  think  it 
was,  man  ?  What  ?  Why,  a  trisure  incal 
culable,  piled  up  tin  feet  high  from  fiure  to 
vaulted  ceiling;  there  was  gold,  and  silver, 
and  gims,  and  golden  urruns,  and  goblits,  and 
perrils,  and  rubies,  and  imeralds ;  there  was 
jools  beyond  all  price,  and  tripods,  and  cen 
sers,  and  statuettes  ;  and  oh,  sure  to  glory ! 
but  it's  meself  that'll  fairly  break  down  in 
the  attimpt  to  give  you  the  faintest  concip- 
tion  of  a  trisure  so  schupindous ;  candelabras, 
and  snuffer-trays,  and  lamps,  and  lavers,  and 
braziers,  and  crowns,  and  coronits,  and  brace 
lets,  and  chains — all  of  them  put  down  in 
that  manuscript,  in  black  and  white,  as  I 
said — coolly  enumerated  by  that  owld  gan- 
dher  of  an  Aloysius,  who  missed  his  chance 
thin,  as  I'll  tell  you.  But  there  they  were,  as 
I'm  telling  ye,  and  I'd  jist  requist  )*e  to  let 
yer  fancy  play  around  this  description ;  call 
up  before  yer  mind's  eye  the  trisure  there — 
the  trisure  that  the  worruld  has  niver  seen 
the  like  of  before  nor  since,  saving  only  once, 
whin  the  gowld  of  Peru  was  piled  up  for 
Pizarro's  greedy  eyes  by  the  unfortunate 
Atahualpa ;  but  no  wonder,  for  what  he  saw 
there  was  no  less  a  thing  than  the  trisure  of 
the  Cfesars/" 

At  this,  O'Rourke  stopped  and  looked  at 
his  companion.  Blake  by  this  time  showed 
evidence  of  the  most  intense  and  breathless 
excitement. 

"  By  the  Lord  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  O'Rourke, 
what  do  you  mean  by  all  this  ?  It  is  incredi 
ble.  It  sounds  like  some  madman's  dream  ! " 

O'Rourke  smiled. 

*'  Wait,"  said  he — "  wait  till  ye  hear  the 
whole  of  the  story,  and  then  we'll  be  able  to 
discuss  the  probabilities.  I'm  not  done  just 
yit — I'll  hurry  on.  I  can't  stand  the  thought 
of  the  glories  of  that  unparalleled  scene. 

"  Well,  Aloysius  was  already  taking  up  the 
things  one  by  one  in  amazement,  whin  Onofrio 


THE   CATACOMBS. 


came  up.  Onofrio  gave  a  cry  of  wonder,  and 
caught  up  several  small  statuettes,  but,  afther 
a  brief  examination,  he  threw  them  back  with 
a  gesture  and  a  cry  of  abhorrence. 

"  '  Come  away ! '  says  he — '  come  away ! ' 

"  '  What  do  you  mean  ?  '  says  Aloysius, 
grabbing  up  a  heap  of  perrils  and  diamond 
jools. 

" '  They're  the  divvle's  own  work,  sure 
enough,'  says  Onofrio,  all  of  a  trimble.  '  Sure 
he's  put  it  all  here  as  a  bait  for  our 
sowls.' 

"  '  Whist  then,  Onofrio  darlint,'  says  Aloy 
sius.  '  What's  the  harrum  of  whipping  off  a 
bit  of  a  diamond  or  imerald  for  San  Anto 
nio  ?' 

"  '  Oh,  sure  to  glory ! '  cries  Onofrio,  «  but 
we'll  be  lost  and  kilt  intirely,  and  we'll  niver 
get  home  again.  Down  with  thim  ! '  says  he. 

*  Fling  them  back,  Aloysius  jool,'  says  he. 
'  They're  the  work,  and  the  trap,  and  the  de 
vice  of  Satan,'  says  he,  *  an'  no  thin'  '11  iver 
come  of  it  but  blue  roon  to  both  of  us.' 

"  '  Sure,  an'  how  could  Satan  get  in  here 
wid  the  saints  and  martyrs,  ye  ould  spalpeen  ? ' 
says  Aloysius. 

"  At  this  Onofrio  declared  that  this  cham 
ber  had  no  tombs,  and  was  thus  ungyarded, 
so  that  thereby  the  powers  of  Darkness  were 
able  to  inter  and  lay  their  snares — 

" '  But,'  says  Aloysius — nnd  oh,  but  it's  the 
clear  head  that  same  had  on  his  shoulders — 
'  how,'  says  he,  '  would  Satan,'  says  he,  '  be 
afther  laying  his  snares  down  here  where  no 
mortal  iver  comes  ?  ' 

"  '  Sure,  and  that's  just  it,'  says  Onofrio  ; 

*  didn't  he  see  us  comin' — didn't  he  just  throw 
these  things  in  here  for  us  to  grab  at  thim  ? 
Oh,  come  back,  Aloysius  darlint ! — drop  ivery 
thing — back  to  the  protiction  of  the  saints 
and  martyrs,  and  out  of  this  ! ' 

"  Well,  just  at  this  moment  several  of  the 
gowlden  braziers  and  tripods,  which  had  been 
loosened  on  the  pile  by  Aloysius  pulling  away 
some  of  the  gowlden  candelabra  and  diamond 
bracelets  from  under  thim,  gave  a  slide,  and 
fell  with  a  great  clatter  to  the  flure.  At  this 
Onofrio  gave  a  yell,  dropped  his  lamp,  and 
ran.  Aloysius  was  for  the  moment  frightened 
almost  as  much,  and  folloAved  Onofrio,  both 
of  thim  with  not  the  least  doubt  in  life  but 
that  the  Owld  Boy  was  after  thim.  So  they 
ran,  an'  they  didn't  stop  till  they  reached  the 
ladder,  when  they  scrambled  up,  and  pulled 
the  ladder  up  after  thim.  They  now  felt  safe, 


and  waited  here  awhile  to  take  breath.  Now, 
mind  you,  Aloysius  had  been  frightened,  but 
there  was  an  imirald  bracelet  that  he'd  slipped 
on  his  arrum,  and  a  diamond  ring  that  he'd 
stuck  on  his  finger,  and  these  two  remained 
on  as  he  ran,  and  when  he  felt  himself  safe 
he  didn't  feel  inclined  to  throw  thim  away. 
But  he  could  not  keep  thim  concealed  from 
Onofrio,  who  detected  thim  by  the  flash  of  the 
gims  that  outshone  the  lamp  and  dazzled  him. 
Upon  this  be  set  up  a  great  outcry  that  they 
were  lost,  and  would  niver  see  the  wurruld 
again,  and  implored  Aloysius  to  tear  the  Sa 
tanic  traps  off,  and  throw  them  behind  him. 
But  Aloysius  refused. 

" '  Whist,'  says  he,  '  do  ye  know  where  ye 
are  ?  '  says  he.  '  Arn't  these  the  saints  and 
martyrs  ?  Would  they  allow  any  blackgyard 
imp  to  show  as  much  as  the  tip  of  his  tail  ? 
Not  they.  Niver.'  But  Onofrio  wouldn't  be 
consoled  at  all,  at  all,  and  all  the  way  back 
wmt  on  lamenting  that  one  or  the  other  would 
have  to  pay  dear  for  stealing  Satan's  jools. 
So  at  last  they  got  back  safe  into  the  vaults 
of  the  monastery,  and  thin — partly  to  console 
Onofrio,  and  partly  out  of  a  ginirous  filial  sin- 
timint  and  loyal  regyard  to  San  Antonio  and 
his  monastery — Aloysius  towld  Onofrio  that  it 
would  be  best  to  let  the  abbot  know ;  and 
this  consoled  Onofrio,  for  he  saw  that  he 
could  get  the  abbot's  help  against  Satan. 
And  so  the  two  of  thim,  without  any  more  de 
lay,  walked  off  and  towld  the  abbot  the  whole 
story. 

"  And  oh,  but  wasn't  the  abbot  the  happy 
man  that  day !  He  quistoned  thim  over  and 
over.  He  bound  thim  by  a  solemn  promise 
niver  to  breathe  a  word  of  it  to  another  sowl. 
He  thin  infarrumed  thim  that  he  would  visit 
the  place  himsilf,  and  told  thim  that  they  both 
would  have  to  go  with  him.  Well,  Aloysius 
was  glad  enough,  and  poor  Onofrio  was  badly 
scared  ;  but  the  abbot,  the  dear  man,  had  his 
own  projicts,  and  wasn't  going  to  lose  the 
chance  of  such  a  trisure  as  this,  ispicially 
whin,  as  ye  may  say,  it  might  be  called  San 
Antonio's  own  gold  and  jools. 

"  '  Sure  to  glory ! '  cried  the  holy  abbot  in 
rapture;  '  don't  I  know  all  about  it?  There's 
been  a  tradition  here  for  ages.  It's  the  tris 
ure  of  the  Caesars.  Whin  Alaric  came  before 
Rome,  the  sinit  and  people  of  Rome  tried  to 
save  something,  so  they  imp  tied  the  imperial 
palace — the  Aurea  Domus  Neronis — me  boys, 
of  all  its  trisures — its  gold,  its  gims,  its  jools, 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


its  kyarbuncles,  its  imiralds,  and  pricious 
stones — and  where  in  the  wide  wurruld  they 
put  thim  nobody  iver  knew  till  this  day.  Ala- 
ric  was  fairly  heart-broke  with  disappointment. 
They  were  niver  tuk  up,  for  Rome  was  no 
longer  safe.  Genseric  came  ravagin',  and 
missed  thim.  They  escaped  the  grasp  of  Odo- 
acer,  of  Theodoric,  of  Vitiges,  of  Totila,  and 
of  Belisarius ;  of  the  Normans,  of  the  robber 
barons,  of  Rienzi,  and  of  the  Constable  Bour 
bon  ;  and  have  been  kept  till  this  day,  through 
the  ispicial  protiction  and  gyardianship  of 
holy  Anthony — may  glory  be  with  him  ! — and 
now  he's  handin'  it  over  to  us,  for  the  honor 
and  glory  of  his  monastery.  Look  at  this,' 
says  he,  whippin'  on  his  own  arrum  the  brace 
let  that  Aloysius  had  found,  and  putting  the 
diamond  ring  on  his  own  finger,  and  howlding 
arrum  and  hand  up  to  the  light.  '  Tare  an 
ages  !  boys,  but  did  ye  iver  see  any  gims  like 
thim  ? ' 

"  So  the  holy  abbot  wint  off,  iscorted  by 
the  two  monks  ;  and  ye  may  be  sure  they  kept 
that  same  ixpedition  a  saycret  from  all  the 
rest  of  the  monks.  It  was  night  whin  they 
wint  down — as  the  manuscript  says.  The 
prisince  of  the  blissid  abbot  gave  the  two 
boys  a  since  of  protiction,  and  even  Onofrio 
seemed  to  have  lost  his  fears.  He  grew  bold 
er,  and  peered  curiously  into  those  darker 
side-passages  which  crossed  the  main  path 
way.  The  clew  lay  along  the  flure  all  the 
way,  so  that  there  was  no  trouble.  Well, 
they  wint  on  an'  reached  the  painted  cham 
ber,  and  found  the  ladders  lying  where  they 
had  left  thim.  They  wint  down.  Each  one 
had  his  own  lamp.  They  walked  on  for  about 
fifty  paces ;  alriddy  Aloysius  was  reaching  for 
ward  his  hand  to  show  the  holy  abbot  how 
near  the  trisure-room  was,  whin  suddenly 
there  was  a  noise — '  a  noise,'  says  the  manu 
script,  '  like  rushing  footstips.' 

"At  that  moment  Onofrio  gave  a  terrible 
cry.  Again,  as  before,  the  lamp  fell  from  his 
hands,  and  was  dashed  to  pieces.  With  yell 
afther  yell,  and  shriek  afther  shriek,  he  darted 
back,  and  bounded  along  the  passage-ways. 
The  abbot  and  Aloysius  heard  the  noise,  too ; 
but  of  itself,  says  the  manuscript,  that  noise 
might  not  have  driven  them  away,  for  the 
holy  abbot  was  riddy  with  no  ind  of  exorcisms 
and  spells  to  lay  the  biggest  imp  that  might 
appear.  But  the  yells,  and  the  sudden  flight 
of  Onofrio,  filled  thim  with  uncontrollable 
horror.  The  abbot,  in  an  instant,  lost  all  his 


prisince  of  mind.  He  turned  and  ran  back  at 
the  top  of  his  speed.  Aloysius  followed,  and 
could  scarcely  keep  up  with  him.  Aloysius 
declares  that,  as  he  ran,  he  still  heard  the 
sound  of  rushing  footsteps  behind  him,  and 
was  filled  with  the  darkest  fear.  llngens  ter 
ror  J  he  says,  limplebat  nos;  membra  rigebant; 
cor  stupebat ;  horror  ineffabilis  undique  circum- 
stabat ;  et  a  tergo  vidcbantur  quasi  calervae  hor- 
ribiles  ex  abysmo,  surgentes,  seguentes  atque  fu- 
gaiites.  Nos  ita  inter  morluos,  semirnortui ; 
inter  fugantes  fugientes  erepti  siimus  nescio  quo- 
modo  ex  illo  abysmo ;  et  ad  cryptum  monasteri 
vix  semianimi  tandem  advenimus.' 

"Well,"  continued  O'Rourke,  after  paus 
ing,  perhaps  to  take  breath  after  the  Latin 
which  he  had  quoted  from  the  old  manuscript, 
"  whin  they  got  to  the  vaults  of  the  monastery, 
they  recovered  from  their  terror,  but  only  to 
ixperience  a  new  alarrum.  For  there,  on 
looking  around,  they  could  see  nothing  of 
Onofrio.  They  searched  all  through  the 
vaults.  He  was  not  there.  They  had  locked 
the  monastery  door,  which  led  into  the  vaults, 
on  the  inside,  and  it  had  not  been  opened. 
If  he  was  not  in  the  vaults,  he  must  yit  be  in 
that  horrible  place  from  which  they  had  fled. 
But  they  had  seen  nothing  of  him  since  his 
first  flight.  They  had  not  overtaken  him. 
The  abbot  had  a  vague  remimbrance  of  a  fig 
ure  before  him  vanishing  in  the  gloom  of  the 
passage-way,  but  no  more. 

"  They  waited  for  a  long  time,  but  Onofrio 
did  not  make  his  appearance.  Thin  they 
shouted  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  but  the 
sounds  died  away  down  the  long,  vaulted  pas 
sage  without  bringing  any  risponse  ixcipt 
what  the  manuscript  vaguely  and  mysterious 
ly  calls  a  '  concentus  quidam  susurrorum  levi- 
um,  id  videbatur,  sonorumque  obscurorum,  quce 
commixta  reverberationibus  tristibus  ac  scgni- 
bus,  volvebant  quasi  suspiria  de  profundis?.  .  . 

"At  last  their  anxiety  about  their  com 
panion  proved  stronger  thin  the  horrors  of 
shuperstition,  and  they  vintured  back,  grow 
ing  bowlder  as  they  wint,  and  they  wint  as  far 
as  the  fust  passage-way.  Thin  they  called 
and  halloed.  But  no  risponse  came.  Thin 
they  wint  as  far  as  the  painted  chamber,  the 
holy  abbot  howlding  before  him  the  sacred 
symbol  of  the  cross,  and  muttering  prayers, 
while  Aloysius  did  the  shouting.  And  the 
manuscript  says  that  they  remained  there  for 
hours.  The  opening  into  the  regions  below 
lay  within  sight,  but  they  didn't  dare  so  much 


THE  TREASURE  OF  THE  OESARS. 


9 


as  to  think  of  going  down  there  again.  They 
saw  the  projiction  of  the  ladder  above  the 
opening,  but  dared  not  go  nearer.  At  last  it 
became  ividint  that  there  was  no  further  hope 
just  thin.  They  wint  up  and  found  it  daylight 
above-ground.  The  abbot  was  wild  with  anx 
iety.  He  gathered  all  the  monks,  got  sthrings, 
and  crosses,  and  torches,  and  down  again  he 
wint  with  thim.  This  time,  embowldined  by 
the  prisince  of  numbers,  he  descinded  the 
ladder  and  stud  afc  the  fut.  He  didn't  dare, 
though,  to  vinture  any  further.  He  didn't  tell 
the  monks  any  thing  except  that  Brother 
Onofrio  was  lost.  Nothing  was  said  about 
the  trisure.  The  most  awful  warrunings  were 
held  out  to  the  monks  against  wandering  off. 
Small  need  was  there  for  warruning  thim, 
however,  for  they  were  all  half  dead  with  fear. 
There  they  stud  and  sang  chants.  They  did 
this  three  days  running.  The  monk  Aloysius 
distinctly  affirrums  that  nothing  kipt  away 
the  minacing  demons  but  the  sacred  chants 
and  the  prayers  of  the  holy  abbot. 

"  Well,  nothing  was  ever  heard  of  Onofrio. 
After  three  days  they  gave  up.  The  abbot 
had  the  opening  walled  up,  and  thin,  over- 
whillumed  by  grief,  he  tuk  to  his  bed.  The 
damp  of  the  vaults  had  also  affected  his  lungs. 
He  died  in  about  sivin  weeks.  He  left  direc 
tions  for  perpetual  masses  to  be  said  for  the 
repose  of  the  sowl  of  Brother  Onofrio.  As  for 
Aloysius,  his  grief  and  remorrus  were  deep 
and  permanint.  He  niver  ceased  to  reproach 
himsilf  with  being  the  cause  of  the  terrible 
fate  of  poor  Onofrio.  He  niver  attimpted  to 
get  the  trisure  which  he  now  and  ever  after- 
worruds  most  ferrumly  believed  to  be  all  that 
Onofrio  had  said.  Still  there  was  the  secret 
on  his  sowl,  and  so  he  wrote  this  story  of  his, 
and  put  his  manuscript  in  the  library  of  the 
monastery.  And  there  ye  have  it." 

With  these  words  Dr.  O'Rourke  concluded 
his  story,  and,  turning  toward  the  table,  re 
freshed  himself  with  another  glass  of  wine. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   TREASURE   OF  THE   (LESARS. 

DR.  O'ROURKE  swallowed  a  glass  of  wine, 
and  then  proceeded  to  light  a  cigar  with  the 
air  of  one  who  felt  that  he  had  done  enough, 
and  was  desirous  of  resting  from  his  labors, 
and  of  leaving  to  his  companion  the  task  of 
making  further  remarks.  So  he  lighted  his 


cigar,  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  turned 
his  eyes  toward  the  ceiling. 

Basil  Blake,  for  his  part,  had  been  a  lis- 
tener  of  the  most  attentive  kind,  and  O'Rourke 
could  not  have  wished  for  any  more  absorbed, 
or  earnest,  or  thoughtful  hearer.  Now  that 
the  story  was  ended,  he  remained  in  the 
same  position,  and,  like  our  first  parents  with 
the  affable  archangel,  "  still  stood  attentive, 
still  stood  fixed  to  hear." 

At  length  he  roused  himself  from  his  ab 
straction,  and,  drawing  a  long  breath,  looked 
fixedly  at  O'Rourke. 

"  Well,  old  chap,"  said  he,  "  all  that  I 
can  say  is  that,  for  a  story,  this  is  the  most 
extraordinary  that  I  have  ever  actually  lis 
tened  to,  and,  in  order  to  find  a  parallel,  I 
have  to  refer  to  the  story-books  of  my  boy 
hood — the  *  Arabian  Nights,'  *  Tales  from  the 
German,'  and  *  Fairy  Lore.'  I  see  you  are  ex 
pecting  me  to  give  an  opinion  about  this,  but 
it  is  difficult  to  do  so ;  for,  in  the  first  place, 
I  don't  know  whether  I'm  to  regard  it  as 
mere  fiction  or  actual  fact." 

O'Rourke  laid  down  his  cigar  upon  the 
table. 

"  That's  the  very  remark  I  expected  you 
to  make,  so  it  is,"  said  he,  "  and  so,  sure 
enough,  there  rises  before  us  at  the  outsit  the 
great  question  of  the  authenticity  of  the  manu 
script  and  the  credibility  of  the  narrative. 
You  see,  thin,  that  this  question  is  twofold, 
and  should  be  considered  as  such." 

Blake  nodded. 

"Now,  first,"  said  O'Rourke,  "as  to  the 
authenticity  of  the  manuscript — there  can  be 
no  doubt  about  that  whativer.  Me  own 
cousin,  poor  Malachi,  a  dying  man,  gave  it  to 
me  with  his  dying  hands.  He  was  a  monk  in 
the  monastery  of  San  Antonio,  and  in  the  li 
brary  of  that  same  he  found  the  manuscript, 
written,  as  the  date  inforrums  us,  cinturies 
ago.  So,  you  see,  the  ginealogy  is  straight 
and  certain.  Howandiver,  this  is  only  ixter- 
nal  ividince.  What  about  the  internal  ivi- 
dince  ?  The  handwriting  of  itself  is  suffi 
cient  proof  that  it  was  written  whin  it  says, 
together  with  the  faded  ink,  the  peculiar  vel 
lum,  and  the  giniral  aspict.  Internal  ividince 
of  a  still  stronger  kind  may  be  found  in  the 
sintimints,  the  exprissions,  and  the  jayniua 
of  the  writer  ;  but  these  all  inter  into  the  dis 
cussion  under  the  second  head — namely,  the 
honesty,  the  cridibility,  the  veracity,  of  the 
author. 


10 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


"Now,  with  rifirince  to  this,  I  will  make 
a  few  observations : 

"  First,  the  writer  could  have  had  no  mo 
tive  whativir  in  writing  down  any  thing  but 
what  he  believed  to  be  true.  Remimber,  he 
speaks  as  an  eye-witness — nay,  more,  an 
actor  in  the  ivints  which  he  narrates.  To  a 
man  in  his  position  and  calling,  a  work  of 
fiction  would  have  been  impossible.  He  was 
not  a  sinsation  novelist.  He  was  a  man  of 
the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  cinturies — a 
monk,  a  recluse,  a  man  near  his  ind.  He  had 
no  aujience ;  no  reading  public ;  he  wrote  bis 
worjruk,  and  consigned  it  to  the  oblivion  of 
the  library.  Under  such  circumstances,  no 
man  could  write  any  thing  but  what  he  be 
lieved  true. 

"But,  secondly,  there  are  other  things 
which  tind  to  sustain  his  intire  cridibility. 
These  are  the  circumstances  mintioned  in  the 
book,  the  feelings,  the  words,  and  the  deeds 
of  the  actors.  First  among  these  things  de 
scribed  is  the  place  itself,  now  famous  as  the 
Roman  Catacombs.  The  mintion  of  this 
place  is  enough  for  me.  In  the  time  when 
Aloysius  lived,  the  Catacombs  were  unknown. 
They  had  been  forgotten  for  ages.  Their  very 
ixistince  was  not  suspicted.  The  labors 
and  explorations  of  Bosio,  Arringhi,  and  oth 
ers,  had  not  yet  taken  place.  Aloysius  thus 
stands  alone  among  his  contimporaries  in  this 
knowledge  of  the  ixistince  and  the  appear 
ance  of  the  Catacombs.  He  saw  them  as 
they  appeared  to  Bosio,  with  the  slabs  un 
touched,  the  pictures  fresh-colored,  the  ipi- 
taphs  undeciphered,  and,  I  may  add,  the 
graves  unrifled. 

"  Now,  you  must  not  only  appreciate  the 
full  force  of  this  most  significant  fact,  but 
you  must  also  bear  in  mind  that  all  the  de 
scriptions  of  Aloysius  are  as  vivid  and  as  ac 
curate  as  possible.  I  have  been  in  those 
Catacombs  which  are  now  open  to  visitors, 
and  can  answer  for  the  truth  of  the  manu 
script.  There  are  the  passages,  the  tiers  of 
graves,  the  chambers,  the  walls  covered  with 
stucco,  with  pictures  of  Scripture  scenes,  the 
schupindous  multichude  of  Christian  dead. 
The  arrangement  of  the  ixcavations  in  differ 
ent  stories,  shuperior,  and  mejium,  and  in 
ferior  ;  the  openings  in  the  paths,  the  peep 
down  into  the  abyss  of  darkness  beneath — 
all  these  are  wonderfully  accurate,  and  are  the 
description  of  an  eye-witniss. 

"  Again,  there  are  those  vivid  descriptions 


of  human  life  and  imotion;  of  exultation; 
uriosity,  triumph,  sudden  fright,  deep  hor 
ror,  succeeded  by  grief  and  despair.  Recall 
the  horror  of  Onofrio,  the  anguish  of  the  abr 
bot.  I  wish  ye  could  only  read  that  crabbed 
manuscript  for  yerself,  so  as  to  see  with  what 
vivid  simplicity  these  terrible  things  are  told. 
"  There's  not  the  least  doubt  in  life,  thin, 
that  at  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  cin- 
tury,  or  the  ind  of  the  sixteenth,  the  man  that 
wrote  this  was  down  in  the  Catacombs,  and 
that  his  companion  perished  there,  as  he  nar 
rates.  There's  not  the  least  doubt  in  life  that 
those  multichudinous  minute  details  are  all 
corrict,  and  actually  happened  as  set  forth. 

"  Still  one  fact  remains,  and  this  is,  after 
all,  the  prayiminint  fact  for  us  now.  It  is 
the  assertion  of  the  discovery  of  a  Great 
Trisure.  With  regyard  to  this,  we  ask  our 
selves  two  questions : 

"  First — Is  it  possible  ? 
"  Secondly — Is  it  probable  ? 
"  Now,  the  question  of  its  possibility  is 
easily  disposed  of.     Of  course,  it's  possible, 
and   more   unlikely   things   than   that   have 
taken  place.     So  the  other  question  remains 
— is  it  probable  ? 

"  Now  let  us  turrun  our  attintion  to  this 
for  a  few  momints  : 

"  When  you  think  of  it,  you  must  see  that 
nothing  is  more  probable  than  that,  in  the 
course  of  ages,  in  the  history  of  a  great  city 
like  ancient  Rome,  trisure  has  been  concealed 
to  a  vast  ixtint.  Think  of  the  numerous 
sieges  and  sacks  that  have  taken  place  since 
the  days  of  Alaric  the  Goth.  The  sacks  of 
Rome  began  with  Alaric.  The  spell  of  Ro 
man  security  was  broken  whin  the  Goths  min- 
aced  the  Ayterrunal  City.  In  the  short  space 
that  was  left  between  his  arrival  and  the  cap 
ture  of  the  city  an  imminse  amount  must 
have  been  hastily  concealed.  At  that  time 
the  ixistince  of  the  Catacombs  was  known. 
It  had,  at  what  might  be  terrumed  a  com 
paratively  recent  period,  been  a  hiding-place 
for  persecuted  Christians.  It  was  thin  a  sa 
cred  place,  as  St.  Jerome  says,  and  was  be 
lieved  to  be  hallowed  by  the  bones  of  the 
martyrs.  'Deed,  St.  Jerome  himself  wint 
down  to  inspict  their  graves,  and  tells  his 
emotions. 

"  There  is  no  doubt,  thin,  I  may  rezhume, 
that  an  incalculable  amount  of  trisure  must 
have  been  hid  away  in  Rome  juring  cinturies 
of  warfare  and  chumult ;  and  it  is  equally  ivl 


THE   TKEASURE   OF  THE   (LESARS. 


11 


dint  that  at  certain  times  the  Catacombs  mus 
have  been  foremost  in  the  thoughts  of  thos 
who  wished  to  hide  money — as  prayiminiut 
ly,  if  not  exclusively,  the  best  place  for  sue 
concealment.  The  quistion,  therefore,  tha 
now  comes  forth  is,  which,  out  of  all  the  cin 
turies  in  the  life  of  the  Ayterrunal  City,  is  thi 
most  likely  one  in  which  a  great  trisure  migh 
be  hid  in  the  Catacombs  ? 

"  In  order  to  answer  this,  let  us  cast  ou 
eyes  over  the  sackings  of  Rome.  The  grea 
sack  by  the  Constable  Bourbon  was  ividintly 
not  the  time  that'll  shoot  our  purposes,  for 
the  reason  that  the  ixistlnce  of  the  Catacombs 
was  not  even  suspicted.  The  same  thing  maj 
be  said  of  the  various  sieges  or  sackings  tha 
occurred  juring  the  middle  ages — undher  the 
Hohenstaufen  imperors,  whither  Rome  was 
minaced  by  a  Ghibelline  arrumy,  or  captured 
and  plundered  by  the  Norramans.  So,  ye  see, 
we've  got  to  go  back  still  further  till  we  come 
to  the  days  of  Belisarius,  and  the  warrafare 
of  that  iminint  gineral  against  the  Goth  s.  One 
answer  meets  us  here,  and  that  is,  that  in  his 
days  there  was  scarcely  enough  trisure  in 
Rome  to  be  worth  concealmint.  We  know 
that  fact  by  the  state  of  Rome  at  the  accission 
of  Grigory  the  Great,  at  the  ind  of  that  same 
cintury.  Whin  that  pope  ascinded  the  chair 
of  Saint  Peter — glory  to  his  name  ! — he  found 
Rome  a  city  of  paupers.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
him,  Rome  would  not  have  been  in  ixistince 
now.  He  was  a  second  Romulus — he  saved 
Rome  —  he  created  it  anew.  But,  by  this 
simple  fact,  we  see  that  in  his  days  there  was 
no  trisure  to  conceal. 

"  It  is  ividint,  therefore,  that  we  are  pushed 
further  back. 

"  Now,  the  conditions  that  we  have  seen 
both  ixist  side  by  side  in  the  greatest  degree 
at  the  time  of  the  first  sack  of  Rome  by  Ala- 
ric.  What  do  we  find  then  ?  Wilth  incalcu 
lable  ;  the  accumulated  trisures  of  the  ages  ; 
the  stored-up  plunder  of  cinturies— all  piled 
up  in  Rome  !  Not  yet  had  any  hand  of  vio- 
lince  been  laid  upon  the  imparial  possissions. 
True  it  is  that  the  Imperor  Constantino  had 
taken  away  some  trisures  of  art — some  rilics, 
perhaps,  and  coined  money,  togither  with 
what  things  he  could  conveniently  appropri 
ate ;  but  such  saquistrations  as  these  were 
but  a  flea-bite,  and  made  no  perceptible  dimi 
nution  in  the  hoarded  wilth  of  the  cinturies 
of  domination  and  shuprimacy.  It  excited  no 
alarrum.  Rome  stood  untroubled.  Time 


rowled  on.  The  gowld,  and  the  gims,  and 
the  jools,  and  the  trisures  of  the  ancient  pa 
gan  timples  were  perhaps  transferred  to  Chris 
tian  idifices  ;  but  they  still  remained  in  Rome. 
No  one  thought  as  yit  of  concealmint— at 
least,  not  on  any  grand  scale.  In  those  days 
the  House  of  Nero  was  yit  the  Golden— the 
Palatine  stood  up  one  of  the  wondhers  of  the 
wurruld. 

"  Now  at  this  time — imagine  the  approach 
of  Alaric — what  would  be  the  fust  act  of  the 
Romans  ?  those  let  us  say  who  were  gyarding 
the  mighty  trisures  of  the  imparial  palace  ? 
Most  ividintly  their  fust  impulse  would  be  to 
hurry  away  every  movable  thing  of  value  into 
a  place  of  concealmint.  And  into  what  place 
of  concealmint  ?  In  that  age  there  would  be 
nicissarily  but  one  place  thought  of— the  Cat 
acombs.  There  their  Christian  fathers  had 
hid  from  a  mightier  than  Alaric,  in  the  days 
whin  a  Roman  imperor  was  at  the  shuprame 
zaynith  of  his  power ;  there,  in  that  same 
place,  it  would  be  easy  to  hide  min  or  trisure 
from  the  grasp  of  a  barbaric  raid. 

"  Now  I  contind,"  continued  O'Rourke  in 
a  calmer  tone — "  I  contind  that  all  this  is  imi- 
nintly  probable,  and,  more  than  this,  I  con 
tind  that  it  is  also  probable  that  it  may  be 
there  yit ;  but  we'll  see  about  that  prisintly. 
I  may  mintion  one  other  theory  that  has  sug- 
gisted  itsilf  to  my  mind,  and  that  is,  that  the 
pagan  priests  may  have  concealed  their  timple 
trisures  from  the  Christians  some  time  between 
the  reigns   of  Constantino  and   Theodosius. 
This  I  thought  of  for  the  reason  that  Aloysius 
says  so  much  about  tripods,  statuettes,  cen 
sers,  braziers,  and  so  forth.     But  the  answer 
to  this,  and  the  objiction,  is  this,  that  pagan 
priests,  even  allowing  that  they  might  have 
3oncealed  their  timple  trisures  out  of  dread 
f  aggrissive  Christians,   would    niver  have 
vintured  into  a  place  like  the  Catacombs — a 
)lace  in  its  origin,  its  use,  its  associations, 
rayiminintly   Christian.       To   do   so   would 
lave  been  to  vinture  into  inivitible  discovery 
nd  capture.     At  the  same  time,"  continued 
)'Rourke,  elevating  his  eyebrows  and  giving 
,  thoughtful  glance  at  his  cigar,  now  utterly 
xtinguished — "  at  the  same  time  this  opins 
tefore  us  an  intiresting  field  of  inquiry,  and 
much  may  be  said  on  both  sides. 

"As  for  Aloysius,"  continued  O'Rourke, 
it  is  ividint  from  the  tone  of  his  writing  that 
e  considered  the  trisure  as  altogither  pagan, 
nd  therefore  Satanic.  Onofrio  seems  to  have 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


ricognized  their  pagan  characters  at  a  glance. 
He  flung  down  with  horror  the  statuette,  and 
looked  with  equal  horror  on  the  jools  that 
Aloysius  had  taken.  Both  of  those  min  were 
shuperstitious  ;  it  was  of  course  the  charac 
teristic  of  their  age.  Even  afther  the  lapse 
of  twinty  years  Aloysius  still  thinks  the  noises 
which  he  heard  Satanic ;  and  it  niver  seems 
to  have  intered  the  dear  man's  head  that  the 
rattle  among  the  gowld  and  silver  vessels  may 
have  been  the  result  of  the  action  of  the  or 
dinary  laws  of  gravitation ;  while  those  ter 
rible  sounds — '  as  of  rushing  footstips  ' — of 
which  he  speaks,  he  seems  incapable,  from 
bis  nature  and  from  his  age,  of  attributing  to 
such  humble  and  commonplace  agencies  as — 
rats,  or  bats,  or  both.  Rats — or  bats — those 
were  the  imps,  the  demons  of  the  poor  monk's 
fancy — that  drove  poor  Onofrio  to  a  hijeous 
death  in  the  interminable  passages,  the  end 
less  labyrinths,  and  the  impinitrible  gloom  of 
the  Catacombs. 

"  One  more  thing  I  may  say  which  has 
just  occurred  to  me.  Ye  don't  know  Rome, 
and  so  ye  can't  understand  the  position  of  the 
monastery  of  San  Antonio.  Well,  ye  can  un 
derstand  me  whin  I  say  that  it  is  situated  on 
a  street  that  begins  not  far  from  the  Corso, 
and  that  the  Palatine  Hill  is  not  an  ixtrava- 
gant  distance  off.  Now,  it  is  quite  within  the 
bounds  of  possibility  that  the  subterranean 
passage  led  in  that  direction  ;  and  I've  made 
maps  according  to  my  own  fancy,  which  shows 
how  those  two  explorers  may  have  wandered 
along  till  they  were  standing  beneath  the 
Palatine.  Now,  on  that  Palatine  stood  the 
Golden  House  of  Nero — the  imparial  palace — 
now  a  heap  of  ruins.  But  that  palace  was 
distinguished  for  the  vast  depth  of  its  founda 
tions,  and  the  imminse  ixtint  of  vaults  be 
neath.  There  are  some  archayologists  who 
have  suggisted  that  there  were  actual  open 
ings  or  communications  with  the  Catacombs 
themselves — 

"  If  so,  how  easy  it  was  for  the  gyarjians 
of  the  imparial  trisures  to  carry  them  all 
down  below !  It  was  merely  going  down 
stairs.  This  chamber,  thin,  may  have  been 
immejiately  beneath  the  imparial  vaults — the 
cellars  or  dungeons  of  the  palace — and  thus 
the  chamber  upon  which  Aloysius  and  Onofrio 
stumbled  would  be  the  very  chamber  where 
once  was  concealed  the  trisure  of  the  Caesars. 
Moreover,  if  it  once  was  concealed  there,  it 
is  easy  to  account  for  the  fact  of  its  remain 


ing  there.  The  terror  of  Gothic  arrums  ;  the 
names  of  Alaric,  Attila,  Genseric ;  the  chu- 
mulchuous  assimblages  outside  and  inside  the 
city;  the  puppit  impirors  put  up  and  over- 
throun  by  barbarian  soldiers — all  these  things 
would  have  injuiced  the  gyarjians  of  the  im 
parial  trisure  to  suffer  it  to  be  there  unre 
in  oved.  And  thin  ginerations  would  pass ; 
and  the  gyarjians  would  die  out ;  and  the 
secret,  transmitted  from  father  to  son,  would 
at  last  be  lost.  The  gyarjians,  or  their  de- 
scindints,  would  be  driven  away  from  the  pal 
ace;  their  places  would  be  occupied  by  Gothic 
servitors ;  the  palace  itself  would  go  to  de 
cay,  the  vaults  fall  in;  the  subterranean  pas 
sages  would  sink  in  ruin;  and  so,  at  last, 
even  if  the  secret  was  known,  the  path  that 
led  to  the  trisure-chamber  would  be  no  longer 
discoverable." 

Dr.  O'Rourke  had  spoken  rapidly  and 
vehemently,  and  in  the  tone,  not  merely  of 
one  who  believed  all  that  he  was  saying,  but 
of  one  who  was  a  positive  enthusiast  in  that 
belief.  This  enthusiasm,  more  than  even  the 
arguments  themselves,  produced  a  strong  ef 
fect  upon  Blake,  in  spite  of  the  utter  incre 
dulity  which  he  had  felt  at  first ;  and  he  now 
found  himself  at  length  swept  onward,  by 
O'Rourke's  vehemence  and  enthusiasm,  to 
the  conclusion  that,  after  all,  the  probabilities 
in  favor  of  the  truth  of  this  wild  idea  were  of 
a  highly-respectable  character." 

"  You  have  said  nothing  about  your  cousin 
— Malachi." 

" No,"  said  O'Rourke.  "I  am  not  quite 
through  yet;  I  am  coming  to  him.  I  confess 
that,  without  poor  Malachi's  own  story,  I 
would  not  have  the  least  idea  in  life  that 
there  was  any  prospect  of  doing  any  thing 
now — in  short,  I  would  have  regyarded  the 
story  of  Aloysius  as  a  species  of  modified 
fiction.  But  me  cousin  Malachi  had  his  own 
story  to  tell,  which,  though  not  conclusive,  is 
still  important  enough  to  make  the  story  of 
Aloysius  seem  like  a  living  fact. 

"  It  seems,  thin,  that  poor  Malachi,  as  I 
said,  stumbled  upon  this  manuscript,  and  read 
it  through.  It  projuiced  such  an  iffict  upon 
him  that  he  could  not  have  any  rist  until  he 
had  tested  the  truth  of  it  to  some  ixtint, 
howiver  slight.  So,  what  did  he  do  but  ho 
determined  to  make  a  slight  exploration  on 
his  own  hook !  He  was  afraid,  though,  to 
take  any  companion,  for  fear  that  he  would 
meet  with  the  fate  of  poor  Onofrio. 


A  STROKE   FOR  FORTUNE. 


13 


14  Well,  first  of  all,  lie  went  down  into  the 
very  same  vaults  where  Aloysius  and  his 
frind  had  gone ;  and  there,  sure  enough,  he 
found  the  very  opening  mintioned  in  the 
manuscript,  which  opening  was  thin  just  as 
it  had  been  walled  up  after  the  search  for 
Onofrio  had  inded.  So  poor  Malachi  took  a 
crowbar,  and  did  as  Aloysius  had  done  be 
fore  him.  He  knocked  down  the  wall  with 
out  difficulty,  and  there,  sure  enough,  he  saw 
the  passage-way  and  the  tiers  of  tombs. 

"  He  didn't  go  far  that  day,  but  waited 
for  a  time.  The  next  time  he  brought  down 
a  ball  of  twine  and  some  lanterns ;  and,  ar- 
rumed  with  these,  he  wint  in,  and  wint  along, 
onrowling  the  twine  for  a  clew. 

"  Well,  all  was  as  the  manuscript  said. 
He  came  to  the  first  crossing,  and  wint  on 
beyond  this. 

"He  says  he  niver  felt  comfortable  there. 
He  always  felt  as  if  the  ghost  of  poor  Onofrio 
was  watching  him ;  but  poor  Malachi  was  a 
very  risolute  boy,  and  he  kipt  at  it.  He  went 
in  several  times,  and  at  last  vintured  as  far 
as  the  painted  chamber. 

"  Beyond  this  he  saw  the  opening  in  the 
flure.  He  looked  down,  and  saw  all  the  dark 
ness  beneath.  He  never  wint  any  farther. 

"There  were  two  reasons  for  this:  First, 
he  hadn't  the  nerve  to  do  it;  he  felt  uncom 
fortable  enough  where  he  was,  but  down  be 
low  he  didn't  dare  to  go,  and  scarcely  dared 
to  look  ;  for  there,  he  fully  believed,  the  ghost 
of  Onofrio  was  wandering,  confined  to  that 
lower  story,  and  haunting  it.  You  and  I  may 
smile  at  poor  Malachi's  shuperstition,  but  a 
monk  leads  a  ghostly  sort  of  life,  and  it  was 
no  joke  to  go  alone  as  he  wint,  right  afther 
reading  such  a  manuscript  as  that  of  Aloy 
sius. 

"  The  other  reason  why  he  didn't  go  any 
farther  was,  that  he  had  no  motive.  He  was 
utterly  and  sublimely  destichute  of  any  de 
sire  for  money.  All  his  wants  were  supplied ; 
he  was  contint.  Why  should  he  bother  his 
head? 

"  Still  he  thought  it  his  juty,  for  the  sake 
of  the  monastery,  and  out  of  loyal  regyard  to 
San  Antonio,  to  tell  the  abbot.  This  he  did 
in  the  most  effective  way  by  reading  the  manu 
script  to  him.  The  abbot  listened  with  deep 
and  painful  feelings.  He  was  not  a  strong- 
minded  man,  nor  was  he  avaricious.  More 
over,  he  was  shuperstitious.  He  would  not 
have  gone  below  in  search  of  that  trisure,  as 
2 


his  predecessor  had  done,  for  all  the  worruld. 
In  fact,  he  charged  me  cousin  Malachi  to  wall 
the  passage-way  up  as  he  had  found  it,  and 
niver  to  mintion  the  subjict  to  any  of  the 
other  monks.  This  me  cousin  Malachi  did. 
He  walled  it  up  again  as  he  had  found  it ; 
and,  as  he  didn't  wish  the  monks  to  get  into 
any  trouble  through  him,  he  kept  his  secret 
till  his  death,  and  thin  confided  it  to  me." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A   STROKE   FOR   FORTUNE. 

SOME  further  conversation  followed  upon 
the  story  of  Aloysius,  and  Blake  asked  sun 
dry  questions  of  a  character  which  showed 
that  he  had  not  lost  a  single  word.    Blake 
conceded  the  possibility,  nay,  even  the  prob 
ability,  of  a  treasure  having  once  been  con 
cealed  in  the  catacombs ;  but  was  inclined  to 
think  that,  in  the  course  of  ages,  it  must  have 
been  discovered.      O'Rourke,   on   the  other 
hand,   reminded  him   of  the  nature  of  the 
Catacombs,  the  utter  ignorance  about  them 
which  existed  through  many  centuries ;  their 
comparatively    recent    rediscovery,   and    the 
small  extent  that  had  been  explored  in  com 
parison  with  what  yet  remained  to  be  inves 
tigated.     He  insisted  that  there  were  portions 
or  districts  of  these  vast  subterranean  realms 
which  must  have  been  for  ages  untrodden  by 
the  foot  of  man ;   and  that  any  thing  once 
placed   there,  no  matter  how  long  ago,  had 
most  probably  been   unseen  and   untouched 
ever  since.   He  laid  great  stress  upon  the  fact 
mentioned  by  Aloysius— that  all  the  slabs 
were   on   their   tombs;    that   no   grave  was 
open— a  circumstance  which,  in   O'Rourke's 
view,  proved  beyond  a  doubt  that  they  had 
never  been  profaned  by  the  presence  of  rob 
bers  or  plunderers.     No   graves   are   sacred 
from  the  thief,  and  the  undisturbed  condition 
of  these  graves  proved  that  their  existence 
had  been  unknown. 

"  And  no  wonder,"  said  he.  "  Have  you 
any  idea  of  the  ixtint  of  the  Roman  Cata 
combs  ?  Did  ye  iver  pay  any  attintion  to  the 
subjict,  or  begin  to  farrum  any  conciption 
about  thim?  The  Catacombs  have  an  ixtint 
that  I  can  scarce  give  any  idea  of.  They  ixist 
beneath  all  that  surface  which  once  forrumed 
the  site  of  ancient  Rome;  and  not  only  so, 
but  all  that  surface  which  was  covered  by  the 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


suburbs.  These  suburbs,  as  we  know,  were 
vast,  and  perhaps  contained  a  population  as 
great  as  the  city  itself;  for,  as  was  said,  one 
could  not  tell  where  the  city  inded,  and  the 
country  began.  More  than  this,  the  Cata 
combs  have  been  found  near  Ostia,  and  pas 
sages  have  been  discovered  which  seem  to  go 
under  the  Tiber,  anticeepating  the  Thames 
Tunnel  by  eighteen  cinturies.  The  vulgar  idea 
of  the  Catacombs  is,  that  they  were  made  for 
the  purpose  of  obtaining  Eoman  cirnint  for 
building-purposes.  This  is  now  exploded. 
The  catacombs  are  excavated  in  a  rock  that 
cannot  be  used  for  cimint  of  any  kind.  The 
latest  researches  have  shown  that  they  were 
undoubtedly  made  for  burial-purposes ;  and 
the  only  question  is  whether  they  were  ori 
ginally  Christian  or  not.  That  they  were 
eventually  Christian  is  ividint.  For  meself,  I 
have  no  doubt  as  to  their  Christian  origin. 

"  Another  misconciption  about  thim  is  as 
to  their  farrum.  There  has  been  a  privilent 
opinion  that  they  ixtinded  uninterruptidly  in 
innumerable  passages.  It  is  now  known, 
however,  that  they  only  exist  where  there  is 
that  peculiar  soft  sandstone  in  which  they  are 
ixcavated.  As  this  only  ixists  in  certain 
places,  so  the  Catacombs  forrum  distinct 
quarters,  or  districts.  These  are  all  ixcavated 
in  stories,  one  above  the  other — sometimes  as 
many  as  four  or  five  are  found— but  many  are 
disconnected  altogither  with  any  other  dis 
trict.  The  whole  of  the  ground  under  Rome 
is  not  all  honeycombed,  therefore,  but  only 
certain  portions  over  an  imminse  ixtint  of 
country.  Now,  the  place  which  we  are  con 
sidering  seems  to  me  to  be  one  of  these  iso 
lated  districts,  the  very  ixistence  of  which  is 
unsuspicted.  No  ixplorers  have  troubled  it 
thus  far.  Me  cousin  Malachi  found  the  tombs 
undisturbed.  We  may  call  thim  the  Palatine 
Catacombs — since  they  certainly  seem  to  run 
under  the  Palatine — and,  if  this  is  so,  I  can 
only  say  that  the  Palatine  Catacombs  are  wor 
thy  of  being  ixplored — and  soon,  too — before 
any  of  these  blackgyard  archayologists  git 
wind  of  their  ixistince." 

"  But  allowing  that  the  treasure  was  once 
put  there,"  said  Blake,  "and  even  allowing 
that  it  may  be  there  yet,  do  you  think  that 
there  is  any  possibility  of  any  one  getting  at 
it?" 

"  Do  I  think  that  ?  And,  if  I  didn't  think 
that,  what  d'ye  suppose  I'd  be  talking  meself 
hoarse  for?  It's  not  for  idle  intertainment 


I'm  talking  now.  It's  business  I  mean.  Don't 
ye  see  that?  Am  I  not  earnest  enough  to 
show  ye  how  risolute  I  ana  ?  But  as  to  git- 
ting  at  it,  I  can  answer  that.  I  believe  it  to 
be  possible,  but  I  haven't  yet  actually  tested 
it.  Still,  I  haven't  the  smallest  doubt  in  life. 
Listen,  now? 

"  The  monastery  of  San  Antonio  is  in  the 
Via  San  Antonio,  that  begins  near  the  Corso, 
and  runs  toward  the  Palatine  and  the  Forum. 
It  is  thickly  built  up  with  houses.  These 
houses  are,  without  exciption,  all  very  old, 
and  strongly  built ;  they  look  like  houses  that 
have  deep  vaults  beneath.  The  people  living 
along  here  belong  to  the  poorer  classes.  Now 
what  is  there  to  privint  any  one  from  rinting 
one  of  these  houses,  or  the  lower  part  of  one  ? 
If  I  were  to  rint  one,  I'll  tell  ye  what  I'd  do. 
I'd  begin  an  ixcavation  on  a  small  scale,  so 
as  to  try  to  feel  my  way  toward  the  passages 
of  the  Palatine  Catacombs.  I  feel  confidint 
that  a  moderate  ixcavation  would  lead  me 
into  some  passage.  In  the  Catacombs,  or  in 
any  of  their  districts  or  divisions,  the  passages 
are  numerous,  and  lie  close  togither.  I  be 
lieve,  thin,  that  any  one,  by  digging  from  the 
cellar  of  one  of  these  houses,  would  reach  be 
fore  long  the  very  passage  of  Aloysius  itsilf. 
That  passage  runs  in  a  diriction  which  ought 
to  make  it  nearly  parallel  with  the  Via  di  San 
Antonio;  and  the  only  trouble  would  be  to 
know  how  to  dig,  and  in  what  diriction.  This 
is  the  only  trouble,  and  it  is  one  that  would, 
of  course,  be  rimidied  by  time  and  persever 
ance. 

"  It's  true  the  vaults  of  San  Antonio  must 
be  deeper  by  at  least  one  story  than  the  cel 
lars  of  the  adjoining  houses ;  but,  in  that  case, 
the  explorer  would  have  to  arrange  his  course 
with  rifirince  to  that,  and  aim  at  a  lower  livil. 
One  advantage  I  have  is,  that  I  have  so  accu 
rate  a  discription  from  me  cousin  Malachi  of 
the  starting-point  of  the  passage  of  Aloysius, 
and  of  its  diriction,  that  I'm  confidint  I  could 
hit  it  without  any  trouble  or  disippointmint 
whativer.  Howandiver,  I'll  find  out  for  me 
self  before  long,  and  know  exactly  what  the 
probabilities  are.  Of  course,  whin  once  in 
side  the  Catacombs,  one  can  find  the  passage 
of  Aloysius,  which  must  still  be  recognizable 
by  the  ind  being  walled  up.  Once  find  that, 
and  thin  all  that  there  is  to  do  is  to  follow  the 
course  mintioned  in  the  manuscript.  Any  one 
can  do  it,  provided  he  has  the  requisite  knowl 
edge,  and  is  distichute  of  shuperstition,  and 


A  STROKE   FOR  FORTUNE. 


15 


is  not  afraid  of  the  ghost  of  Onofrio,  like  me 
poor  Cousin  Malachi. 

"  Well,  now,  me  boy,  the  question  is  this  : 
do  you  feel  inclined  to  accompany  me  on 
this  ixploration?  Ye  know  the  whole  now. 
The  fact  is,  one  can't  do  much  alone.  Things 
must  be  taken  down — ladders  and  lamps,  and 
perhaps  pickaxes  and  spades.  We  must  ex- 
pict  some  ravages  to  be  made  by  time.  The 
passage  may  have  fallen  in,  and  may  have  to 
be  cleared  away.  All  this  may  be  so  difficult 
for  one  man  to  do  alone,  that  the  obstacles 
may  utterly  defeat  his  attimpt." 

"  Oh,  by  Jove !  "  cried  Blake,  "  as  for 
that,  if  there's  even  a  ghost  of  a  chance  of 
success,  I'd  go — like  a  shot." 

"Didn't  I  know  it?  Sure  I  did,"  ex 
claimed  O'Rourke,  with  genuine  satisfaction 
in  his  tone.  He  thereupon  poured  out  another 
glass  of  wine,  and  slowly  quaffed  it. 

"  Any  thing  that  may  better  my  circum 
stances  is  welcome  to  me,"  said  Blake.  "I 
can't  lose  any  money,  for  I  have  none  to  lose. 
I  can  only  lose  time — and,  unfortunately,  that 
is  a  commodity  of  very  little  value  to  me  just 
now,  or  to  anybody  else.  It  may  be  a  wild- 
goose  chase,  but  I'm  willing  to  try  it." 

"  Sure,  and  ain't  that  the  true  spirit  of 
a  man,  a  Christian,  and  a  hayro  ? "  cried 
O'Rourke.  "  Ye're  sure  to  be  successful — 
but  it's  just  as  well  for  ye  not  to  feel  sure — 
if  it's  only  to  keep  yer  head  cool,  and  yer 
hand  stiddy." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  at  all  sanguine,"  said  Blake, 
with  a  laugh.  "  I  go  in  merely  for  a  specu 
lation." 

"The  fact  is,"  said  O'Rourke,  "it's  now 
over  two  years  since  me  cousin  Malachi 
died,  and  since  thin  I've  been  .reading  the 
manuscript  over  and  over,  and  brooding 
over  it,  and  arranging  some  plan.  But  I 
soon  found  that  I  couldn't  do  any  thing  till  I 
could  get  the  proper  associate.  I  wanted  a 
man  of  pluck,  and  honor,  and  risolution,  and 
nerve,  and  hardihood.  All  these  qualities  it 
is  difficult  to  find  combined  in  the  same  man 
— and  in  my  case  I  wanted  a  man  whom  I 
could  rely  on  as  a  frind — one  who  would 
stand  by  me  in  sickness,  and  not  leave  me  in 
the  lurch.  Now,  me  boy,  I've  only  known 
you  for  a  year,  but  you  come  nearer  to  the 
standard  than  any  man  I  know,  and  this  is 
the  reason  why  I've  taken  you  into  my  confi- 
dince,  and  asked  you  to  come  with  me  into 
this  interprise.  If  it  is  successful  the  half  is 


yours  ;  if  not — why,  thin — sure  to  glory — 
there's  no  harrum  done — and  nothing  lost  but 
a  few  months'  time." 

"  Well,  old  fellow,"  said  Blake,  in  a  frank 
and  cordial  tone,  "  I  thank  you  for  the  com 
pliment  you  pay  me,  in  taking  me  into  your 
confidence,  and,  whether  we  succeed  or  not,  I 
shall  feel  just  the  same  sort  of — a — gratitude, 
you  know,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  As 
to  standing  by  you,  I  assure  you,  my  dear 
fellow,  you  may  count  on  me  to  any  extent, 
and  under  any  circumstances.  I  can  do  a 
good  day's  work — if  it  comes  to  that — I'm 
not  superstitious — I  don't  believe  in  ghosts 
of  any  sort  or  kind ;  and  if  there's  any  gold 
down  there,  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  that  gold  will 
have  to  show  itself  to  the  light  of  day,  for 
I'll  have  it  up,  or  else  I'll  leave  my  bones  in 
the  Catacombs  along  with  those  of  our  mu 
tual  friend  Onofrio ! " 

O'Rourke  smiled  blandly. 
"  Sure,  and  if  it  comes  to  leaving  your 
bones — or  my  bones,"  said  he,  "  we  couldn't 
find  a  better,  a  quieter,  or  a  more  respictable 
and  altogither  unexciptional  place,  than  thim 
same  Catacombs." 

"  Well,"  said  Blake,  cheerily,  "  when  do 
you  propose  to  begin?  " 

"  As  soon  as  possible,  if  you  consint,"  said 
O'Rourke. 

"  Of  course  I  consent.  I  have  no  choice. 
I'm  a  hard-up  man.  In  those  few  words  you 
may  read  a  melancholy  story." 

"  Sure  and  the  wisest  and  the  best  of  the 
human  race  are  in  the  same  fix,  as  a  general 
thing,"  responded  O'Rourke.  "  Well — as  to 
our  work — I  propose,  as  I  said,  to  begin  as 
soon  as  possible.  Now,  my  intintion  is  to 
set  out  for  Rome  to-morrow — since  you  have 
decided  in  favor  of  this  interprise— and  thin 
I  intend  to  indivor  to  rint  one  of  thim  houses 
along  the  Via  San  Antonio,  as  nigh  to  the 
monastery  as  possible.  Sure  and  there  can't 
bte  any  doubt  but  I'll  be  able  to  rint  some  one 
among  them  ;  and  my  opinion  is  that  if  I  of 
fer  rint  high  enough  I'll  be  able  to  git  the 
house  that  stands  next  door.  If  I  do  so,  I 
can  hit  the  passage  of  Aloysius  in  one  night's 
work.  But,  be  that  as  it  may,  whativer 
bouse  I  git,  I  mean  to  go  to  work  at  once, 
alone,  and  see  what  I  can  do.  I  think  it's 
better  for  me  to  attind  to  the  preliminaries 
alone.  It's  quieter,  safer,  and  less  suspicious. 
[  don't  want  to  indanger  the  projict  by  ixci- 
ting  attintion  of  any  kind  if  I  can  help  it." 


16 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


"But  you  surely  don't  intend  to  do  all 
that  digging  yourself?  "  cried  Blake. 

"  Sure  and  I  do." 

"  Oh,  but  I  ought  to  help  you  to  some  ex 
tent." 

"  So  you  may." 

"How?"  asked  Blake. 

"  Why,  by  not  saying  one  word  about  this 
to  any  living  soul." 

"  Oh,  I'll  keep  dark." 

"  Yis,  but  you  mustn't  even  hint  at  it — 
not  to  any  living  soul,  male  or  female,  man 
or  child,  frind  or  rilitiv.  No  one  must  have 
the  least  suspicion.  If  you  do,  you'll  indan- 
gerit  all.  It's  so  strange  and  unusual  a  thing, 
that  the  very  mintion  of  it  would  sit  the  mind 
agog,  and  it  would  git  sprid  abroad." 

"  Oh,  well,  as  to  that,  it's  easy  enough  for 
me  to  keep  secret.  I've  no  relative  in  the 
world  except  my  poor  dear  old  mother,  and  I 
should  not  feel  inclined  to  bother  and  worry 
her  by  making  her  the  confidante  of  any  such 
plan  as  this.  She'd  be  worried  out  of  her 
life,  poor  old  lady.  And  then  as  to  friends, 
I  have  only  one  besides  yourself — Hellmuth, 
you  know — and  he's  not  a  fellow  that  I  should 
choose  to  talk  to  about  a  thing  like  this. 
He'd  scorn  the  whole  thing — treasure  and  all. 
Oh,  no,  I  value  Hellmuth's  good  opinion  too 
much  to  say  any  thing  to  him  about  this.  So 
you  see  the  secret  is  inviolable,  from  the  very 
nature  of  the  case,  and  of  my  circum 
stances." 

"  Well,  it's  just  as  well  to  have  it  so," 
said  O'Rourke,  pleasantly.  "There's  no 
harrum  done  by  keeping  this  a  secret,  but  if 
it  is  not  kept  secret,  it  may  lead  to  all  the 
harrum  in  the  worruld." 

"  Well,"  said  Blake,  "  those  are  the  only 
ones  that  I  should  mention  any  of  my  affairs 
to  ;  my  other  friends  are  not  at  all  on  an  in 
timate  footing ;  they  are  merely  acquaintances, 
and,  in  fact,  I  see  very  little  of  anybody  here 
in  Paris,  except  Hellmuth  and  yourself."  t 

"I've  niver  had  the  pleasure,"  said 
O'Rourke,  "  of  meeting  with  your  frind  Hell 
muth." 

"  No,"  said  Blake.  "  The  fact  is,  you  both 
keep  so  much  by  yourselves  that  it  is  next  to 
an  impossibility  that  you  should  ever  stray 
across  one  another's  paths.  Still  I  wonder 
that  you  haven't  sometimes  stumbled  upon 
one  another  here.  He  comes  here  a  good 
deal — and  so  do  you." 

"  Yis,"  said  O'Rourke  ;  "  but  I'm  so  busy 


all  day  that,  whin  I  do  come  here,  it's  ginera-I- 
ly  late—" 

"  Well,  I  hope  you'll  both  meet  some  day ; 
and  I'm  sure  you'd  like  him — he's  a  man  of 
no  common  kind.  If  you'd  known  him,  you'd 
not  have  chosen  me — though  I  don't  know, 
either — for  Hellmuth  has  such  a  scorn  of 
money  that  I  don't  believe  even  the  treasure 
of  the  Ctesars  could  induce  him  to  swerve  one 
hair's-breadth  from  the  line  of  life  that  he 
has  marked  out  for  himself." 

"  Sure,  in  that  case,"  said  O'Rourke,  "  he'd 
nivcr  do  for  me  at  all,  at  all.  I'm  an  impe 
cunious  man,  and  I  love  impecunious  min. 
The  man  that  has  no  need  of  money  is  too 
prosperous  to  shuit  me.  He  is  an  alien  to 
me,  and  with  such  I  have  no  sympathy." 

"  Well,"  said  Blake,  "  and  so  you  intend 
to  go  at  once  to  Rome  ?  " 

"  Yis." 

"  And  how  long  may  it  be  before  I  may 
hear  from  you  ?  " 

"  That  depinds  upon  circumstances  of 
course.  I  may  be  through  in  a  week,  and  I 
may  be  detained  longer.  On  the  whole,  it  is 
best  to  fix  the  outside  limit." 

"Well,  what  is  that?  I  intend  leaving 
Paris  shortly  myself — to  recruit  for  a  time — 
and  will  not  come  back,  if  I  can  help  it,  for 
some  weeks." 

"  Sure,  and  while  yer  about  it  ye  can  give 
yerself  months  if  ye  choose,"  said  O'Rourke. 
"  The  outside  limit  which  I  should  fix  would 
be  at  least  three  months." 

"  Three  months  ?  Oh,  that  will  suit  me 
capitally." 

"  Ye  see,  I  have  to  rint  the  house,  and 
thin  work  to  git  to  the  Catacombs.  I'll  have 
to  work  slowly  and  cautiously,  so  as  not  to 
be  suspictid.  But  in  three  months,  at  the 
very  farthest,  I  ought  to  do  all  that  I  can 
ixpict  to  do,  and  if  I  don't  do  it  in  that  time, 
it'll  be  because  I  can't  do  it  alone,  in  which 
case  I'll  have  to  git  you  to  hilp  me." 

"  Well,  you  know,  I'd  help  you  at  the 
very  first  if  you'd  let  me." 

"  Yis,  but  I  don't  want  ye — at  the  first. 
So  we'll  say  three  months." 

"  Very  well." 

"  Are  ye  going  any  distance  ?  " 

"  No — I  don't  intend  to  go  out  of  France. 
I'm  simply  going  to  recruit,  and  I  haven't 
made  up  my  mind  yet  where  I  shall  go." 

"  Well,  that's  about  the  best  way  to  re 
cruit.  Wander  off.  Let  yerself  drift.  That's 


VILLENEUVE. 


17 


the  way     But  ye'll  be  baek  here  in  three 
months  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  probably  in  three  weeks." 

"  Yery  well,  thin.  I'll  know  where  to 
find  ye — or  to  write  to  ye  if  I  can't  come  me- 
silf—  " 

O'Rourke  now  rose. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  me  boy,  it's  glad  I  am 
to  git  ye  for  an  assisting  and,  still  better,  a 
frind.  Ye'll  allow  me  to  say  thougn,  that  in 
this  case,  as  I  ferrumly  believe,  it'll  be  the 
very  best  stroke  of  work  that  ye  iver  turruned 
yer  arrum  to.  I'll  make  ivery  thing  riddy, 
and,  at  the  shupreme  momint  I'll  call  on  you 
to  accompany  me  on  a  promenade  along  the 
passage  of  Aloysius.  Ye  may  be  sanguine  or 
dispondint,  whichiver  ye  choose,  only  mind  ye 
keep  the  secret — that's  all — and  thin  ye'll 
find  yerself — with  me — the  heir  of  the  trisure 
of  the  Catsars!" 

"  I  swear,  old  fellow,"  said  Blake,  sudden 
ly,  "  you  could  never  guess  what  an  odd  idea 
struck  my  mind  just  now." 

"  An  odd  idea  ?  "  said  O'Rourke ;  "  such 
as  what — for  instance  ?  " 

"  Why — this.  You've  read  the  { Arabian 
Nights  ?  ' " 

"  Sure,  and  I  have,  but  what  of  thim  ?  " 

"  Do  you  remember  the  immortal  story 
of  *  Aladdin  and  the  Wonderful  Lamp  ?  '" 

"  Mesilf  does — of  course.   But  what  thin  ?  " 

"  Nothing — only  it  was  such  an  absurd 
fancy.  You  looked  to  me  just  then  exactly 
like  the  magician  who  came  to  Aladdin,  and 
persuaded  him  to  accompany  him  to  the  cave 
where  the  magic  lamp  was  kept,  you  know." 

Blake  said  this  in  a  careless  and  lively 
tone,  with  a  bright  gleam  in  his  clear  and 
pleasant  eyes,  and  a  joyous  smile  on  his  frank 
and  open  face.  It  was  a  passing  remark, 
thrown  off  with  the  utmost  nonchalance  ;  but 
as  O'Rourke  heard  it  there  came  over  his  face 
a  sudden  change — and  a  total  one.  His  com 
plexion  changed  to  one  of  a  sickly  pallor  ;  his 
brow  was  darkened  with  a  frown ;  his  pier 
cing  eyes  rested  gloomily  upon  the  face  of 
his  companion ;  his  hands  clutched  one  an 
other  behind  his  back.  But  this  was  only 
for  a  moment.  Blake  had  not  time  to  notice 
it.  In  another  moment  it  had  passed  away, 
and  O'Rourke's  face  was  as  before. 

He  laughed  boisterously. 

«  Well— well,"  he  said,  "  I  hope  it  may  be 
EO,  and  for  my  part  I  believe — though  you 
don't— that  it  will  be  so — so  I  do  ;  for,  as  I've 


been  saying,  I  believe  that  in  those  Palatine 
Catacombs  there  is  the  trisure  of  the  Caesars, 
and,  if  I'm  right — why  thin,  sure — and  it's 
mesilf  that'll  be  the  majician  that'll  put  in 
your  hands  a  wilth  in  comparison  with  which 
even  the  fabulous  riches  of  Aladdin  would  be 
paltry  and  contimptible.  Well,  we  won't  in 
dulge  just  now  in  visions  like  these.  We'll 
defer  all  this  till  we  find  the  reality.  It's 
late,  and  I  must  be  off;  and  so,  Blake,  me 
boy,  good-night,  and  good-by." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  Blake  took  it,  and 
they  shook  hands  cordially.  O'Rourke  then 
took  his  departure. 


CHAPTER    V. 

VILLENEUVE. 

THE  Lake  of  Geneva  is  one  of  the  most 
attractive  places  in  the  world,  and  to  the 
grace  of  natural  beauty  is  added  the  more 
subtile  charm  that  arises  from  the  closeness 
with  which  its  scenes  have  become  blended 
with  the  great  events  of  history,  and  the 
majestic  names  of  men  of  genius.  The  mem 
ories  of  Rousseau,  Voltaire,  Gibbon,  Byron, 
and  many  more,  are  inseparably  connected  with 
it ;  but  among  all  it  is  to  the  two  Englishmen 
that  its  fame  owes  most,  for  they  surely  loved 
it  best.  The  shade  of  the  great  historian 
seems  still  to  haunt  the  gardens  of  Lausanne ; 
while  all  the  surrounding  scenes  still  wear 
those  epithets  with  which  the  mighty  poet 
endowed  them.  There  is  clear,  placid  Leman  ; 
the  Alps,  the  pyramids  of  Nature;  Jura,  with 
her  misty  shroud  ;  there  too  under  the  shad- 
owy  mountains  rises  the  Castle  of  Chillon, 
sombre  and  melancholy,  once  the  scene  of 
wrong  and  cruel  oppression,  but  now  a  place 
of  pilgrimage : 

.  .  .  .  "  For  'twas  trod, 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn,  as  if  the  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 

By  Bonnivard  I—May  none  those  marks  efface  1 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God." 

It  was  early  morning,  and  the  sun  was 
just  rising,  when  two  young  ladies  left  the 
hotel  at  Villeneuve,  and  walked  slowly  along 
in  the  direction  of  the  Castle  of  Chillon. 
Both  of  them  were  young,  and  each  was 
beautiful  in  her  way,  though  they  were  utter 
ly  unlike  and  dissimilar  in  features,  expres 
sion,  manner,  and  tone.  One  had  clear,  calm 
blue  eyes ;  golden  hair,  which  flowed  down 


18 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


from  a  chignon  of  very  moderate  dimensions, 
in  a  rippling  tide  of  frizzled  glory ;  dimpled 
cheeks ;  and  small  mouth,  the  lines  of  which 
were  of  such  a  nature  that  they  formed  the 
impress  of  a  perpetual  smile.     Her  companion 
had  a  delicate  and  ethereal  face,  over  which 
there  was  an  air  of  quiet  thoughtfulness  ;  her 
eyes  were  soft,  dark,  liquid,  and  lustrous, 
with  a  peculiar  expression  in  them  that  a 
superficial  glance  would  regard  as  savoring 
of  melancholy,  but  which  to  a  closer  observ 
er  would  indicate  less  of  sadness   than   of 
earnestness.      Her  hair  also  floated  behind, 
after  the  same  fashion  as  her  companion's; 
but,  while  the  one  owed  its  beauty  to   the 
crimping-irons,  the  dark  masses  of  the  other 
curled  lustrously  in  the  graceful  negligence 
of  Nature. 

They  walked  slowly,  and  noticed  the  suc 
cessive  features  of  the  surrounding  scenery, 
which  they  spoke  of  with  great  animation. 
At  length  a  turn  in  the  road  brought  them  in 
sight  of  the  castle. 

"  0  Inez  I "  said  the  lady  with  the  golden 
hair,  "  what  a  darling  old  castle !  Look  !— 
did  you  ever  see  any  thing  like  it  in  all  your 
life  ?  and  isn't  it  perfectly  lovely  ?  " 

The  one  called  Inez  said  nothing  for  some 
time,  but  stood  looking  at  the  sombre  pile  in 
quiet  admiration. 

"  It  must  be  Chillon,"  said  she,  at 
length. 

"Chil— what,  Inez  dear?"  asked  the 
other. 

"  Chillon,"  said  Inez.  "  You've  read  By 
ron's  *  Prisoner  of  Chillon,'  you  know,  haven't 
you,  Bessie  ?  " 

Bessie  shook  her  head  with  a  doleful  ex- 


pression. 

"Well,  Inez  dear,"  said  she,  "really  you 
know  poetry  is  so  stupid,  but  I  dare  say,  after 
all,  I  have  read  it,  only  I  don't  remember  one 
word  about  it ;  I  never  do,  you  know,  dear. 
You  see  I  always  skim  it  all  over.  I  skim 
Shakespeare,  and  Bacon,  and  Gibbon,  and 
Sir  Isaac  Newton,  and  all  the  rest  of  those 
stupid  writers.  They  make  my  head  ache  al 
ways." 

Inez  smiled. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure,  Bessie,"  said  she,  "  if 
you  try  Newton  and  Bacon,  I  don't  wonder 
that  you  find  it  rather  difficult  to  read  them. 
I  should  skim  them  myself." 

"  Oh,  you  know  it's  all  very  well  for  you, 
Inez  dear,  when  you've  got  so  much  intellect, 


but  for  poor  me !    At  any  rate,  what  is  there 
about  this  Chip— Chil— how  is  it?" 
"  Chillon,"  said  Inez. 
"Chillon,  then.     Tell  me  the  story,  Inez 
dear,  for  you  know  I'm  awfully  fond  of  stories, 
and  you  tell  them  so  deliciously.     I  only  wish 
I  was  so  clever." 

^  "Nonsense,  Bessie ! "  said  Inez ;  and,  after 
this  disclaimer  of  Bessie's  too  open  flattery, 
she  proceeded  to  give  her  companion  the  sub' 
stance  of  Byron's  poem. 

Well  now,  really,  Inez  dear,"  said  Bes 
sie,  as  her  companion  finished  her  story, 
"  what  was  the  use  of  it  all  ?  Why  did  that 
poor,  silly  creature  go  to  prison  at  all  ?  Sure 
its  mad  he  was." 

At  this,  Inez  looked  at  her  friend  with 
sad,  reproachful  eyes.  Bessie's  intonation 
and  accent  were  somewhat  peculiar;  for, 
though  she  was  perfectly  well  bred  and  lady 
like  in  her  tone,  there  was,  however,  in  her 
voice  a  slight  Hibernian  flavor,  originally 
caught,  perhaps,  from  some  Irish  nurse,  and 
never  altogether  lost.  There  was  an  oddity 
about  this  which  was  decidedly  attractive, 
and  the  "  laste  taste  in  life  av  the  brogue," 
which  was  thus  noticeable  in  Bessie,  gave  to 
that  young  person  a  wonderful  witchery,  and 
suggested  infinite  possibilities  in  her  of  droll- 
ery  or  archness. 

"People  often  have  to  suffer  for  their 
principles,  of  course,"  said  Inez,  gravely. 

"  But  I  don't  see  why  he  should  bother 
about  his  principles,"  persisted  Bessie.  "  No 
one  thanked  him  for  it,  at  all  at  all." 

"He  had  to.  Ho  believed  in  them,  and 
of  course  could  not  give  up  his  belief." 

"But  he  needn't  have  gone  so  far,  you 
know,  Inez  dear.  Why  couldn't  he  have 
made  it  up  with  the  count  or  the  juke,  or 
whoever  it  was?  " 

"  Why,  Bessie,  how  absurd !  A  man  can't 
give  up  his  belief  so  easily.  Some  things 
people  must  suffer.  You  and  I  are  Catholics, 
and  if  we  were  ordered  to  change  our  religion 
we  couldn't  do  it.  We  should  have  to  suffer." 
Bessie  shook  her  pretty  little  head. 
"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  really  don't  see  how  I 
could  stand  being  put  in  a  dungeon  with  rats 
and  things,  and  so  dark  too ;  and  besides  it 
was  different  with  this  man.  It  wasn't  his 
religion,  but  some  absurd  bother  about  poli 
tics.  I'm  sure  there's  no  danger  of  my  ever 
getting  into  trouble  about  politics.  But,  oh, 
Inez  dear,  there  he  is — I  knew  it — look  ! " 


VILLEXEUVE. 


19 


The  sudden  change  in  Bessie's  remarks 
was  caused  by  some  one  whom  she  happened 
to  see  coming  up  the  road  behind  them  as  she 
casually  looked  back.  Whoever  it  was,  how 
ever,  Inez  did  not  choose  to  look,  as  Bessie 
told  her.  On  the  contrary,  she  seemed  to 
know  perfectly  well  who  it  was,  and  to  feel 
some  slight  embarrassment,  for  a  flush  came 
over  her  face,  and  she  looked  straight  before 
her  without  saying  a  word. 

"Now,  I  think  it's  a  great  shame,"  said 
Bessie,  after  a  moment's  pause,  in  a  fretful 
tone. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  Dr.  Blake,  since  he's  joined  us,  I 
never  see  any  thing  of  you." 

"  Why,  Bessie,  what  perfect  nonsense ! 
You  are  with  me  all  the  time." 

"  Oh,  but  I  mean  I  never  have  you  to  my 
self  now  at  all.  It's  nothing  but  Dr.  Blake 
all  the  time.  He  is  always  with  you.  Your 
papa  and  you  are  fairly  bound  up  in  him. 
And  it's  a  great  shame  entirely,  so  it  is.  And 
he  is  so  awfully  devoted — why,  he  worships 
the  ground  you  tread  on !  " 

At  this,  the  cheeks  of  Inez  blushed  like 
flame. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  absurd," 
said  she.  "  You  are  talking  nothing  but 
the  most  perfect  nonsense.  Papa  and  I, 
of  course,  both  esteem  Dr.  Blake,  and  he  is 
of  great  use  to  poor  papa  in  his  illness,  and 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  papa  would  ever 
have  done  without  him." 

"Well,  I'm  sure,". continued  Bessie,  in  a 
plaintive  voice ;  "  of  all  stupid  people,  the 
very  worst  in  the  world  are  two  devoted 
lovers." 

"  You  absurd,  silly  child  ! "  exclaimed 
Inez,  turning  away. 

"  Why,  I'm  sure  I  do  not  know  what  else 
to  call  you.  Doesn't  he  give  you  flowers  all 
the  time  ?  Doesn't  he  sit  and  fasten  his  eyes 
on  you,  and  look  as  though  he  longed  to  eat 
you  up?  Doesn't  he  always  look  at  me, 
whenever  he  condescends  to  notice  poor  me 
at  all,  as  though  he  thinks  I  am  always  in 
the  way  ?  Don't  I  have  to  bear  the  painful 
consciousness  in  my  unhappy  breast  that  I 
am  de  trop  ?  " 

"  Hush,  you  silly  little  goose ! "  cried  Inez, 
hurriedly,  as  she  heard  the  sound  of  foot 
steps  close  behind  her,  fearful  that  Bessie's 
words  would  be  overheard.  Bessie,  however, 
stopped  short,  and  demurely  moved  away 


from  Inez,  as  though  she  wished  to  allow  the 
new-comer  every  chance  with  his  inamorata 
— a  movement  which  the  other  noticed,  and 
tried  to  baffle  by  keeping  close  to  her.  But 
this  little  by-play  was  now  interrupted  by  a 
clear,  manly  voice,  which  sounded  close  be 
side  Inez. 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Wyverne.  I  had 
no  idea  that  you  would  be  out  so  early  after 
your  fatigues  of  yesterday." 

Inez  turned  with  a  smile  of  pleasure,  and 
the  face  which  met  the  new-comer's  eyes,  still 
wearing  the  flush  which  Bessie  had  called  up, 
seemed  to  him  to  be  inexpressibly  lovely.  He 
was  a  tall  young  fellow,  with  a  fine,  fresh, 
frank,  open  face  ;  short,  crisp  hair ;  whiskers 
of  the  English  cut,  and  a  joyous  light  in  his 
eyes,  that  spoke  of  bounding  youth  and  the 
bloom  of  perfect  health,  and  of  something 
more,  too,  that  might  have  been  due  to  the 
present  meeting.  He  stood  with  his  hat  off, 
and  hand  extended.  Inez  accepted  his  greet 
ing,  and  said  simply : 

"  Good-morning,  Dr.  Blake." 

"Miss  Mordaunt,"  continued  Dr.  Blake, 
addressing  Bessie,  who  was  on  the  other 
side  of  Inez,  "  good  morning.  What  do  you 
think  of  Villeneuve  now  ?  Will  you  ever 
dare  to  abuse  it  again  ?  Confess,  now,  did 
you  ever  see  such  a  lovely  sight  ?  For  my 
part,  I  think  it's  far  and  away  the  prettiest 
place  I  ever  saw,  and  for  invalids  it  is  per 
fect.  But,  by-the-way,  Miss  Wyverne,  have 
you  seen  your  father  this  morning  ?  How 
is  he  ?  " 

"  Oh,  thanks,  he  is  much  better,"  said 
Inez.  "  He  was  up  and  dressed  before  I  left. 
He  had  slejtt  better  than  usual,  he  said, 
though,  of  course,  he  never  sleeps  much  now 
— poor  papa  ! " 

"Oh,  well,  we  must  be  patient,"  said 
Blake.  "We  cannot  expect  any  very  rapid 
improvement,  you  know.  This  is  the  place 
where  he  can  find  just  what  he  needs.  It  is 
so  quiet,  and  so  mild  and  beautiful.  And 
there  is  the  castle.  I  suppose  you  intend  to 
visit  it  as  soon  as  possible  ?  " 

"It  is  not  open  so  early  as  this,  is  it?" 
asked  Inez. 

"  Well,  no ;  this  is  a  little  too  early,"  said 
Blake.  "For  the  present  we  must  content 
ourselves  with  an  outside  view.  But  the 
castle  itself  and  its  surroundings  will  be 
enough  for  a  first  visit.  There  are  the  bat 
tlements  from  which  the  sounding-line  was 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


cast  a  thousand  feet  into  the  waters  below ; 
and  there  is  the  'little  isle,'  which  is  men 
tioned  in  the  poem: 

"'....  a  little  isle 
Which  in  mj  /ery  face  did  smile, 

The  only  one  in  view — 
A  srnaJl  green  isle  it  seemed  no  more 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon-floor, 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain-breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue.'  " 

Blake  was  full  of  the  enthusiasm  of  youth, 
and  inspired  by  the  scene  around  him,  and 
the  companionship  which  he  had.  He  talked 
eloquently,  and  showed  so  wonderfully  inti 
mate  an  acquaintance  with  the  scene  before 
him,  that  it  seemed  as  though  he  must  have 
made  Lake  Leman  a  specialty,  or  at  least 
have  read  up  very  lately. 

They  sauntered  along  thus,  and  at  length 
sat  down  upon  a  grassy  knoll  by  the  road 
side,  while  the  whole  prospect  spread  itself 
magnificently  before  them. 

Bessie's  remarks  were  justified  by  the 
present  appearance  of  things.  It  was  as  she 
said.  It  was  the  old,  old  story  of  two  lovers. 
The  doctor  had  no  words  or  looks  or  thoughts 
for  any  one  but  Inez ;  and  the  joy  that  was 
in  his  face,  the  animation  of  his  manner,  the 
eloquence  of  his  words,  were  all  due  to  the 
intoxication  of  her  presence.  However  all 
this  may  have  seemed  to  Inez,  it  is  not  to  be 
expected  that  it  would  be  altogether  pleasant 
to  Bessie  ;  but  Miss  Bessie  was  not  one  who 
would  allow  herself  to  be  imposed  upon,  and 
so  she  proceeded  to  solace  herSelf  for  the 
neglect  which  she  supposed  to  be  shown  her, 
by  entering  upon  a  deliberate  and  elaborate 
system  of  teasing,  which  was  directed  against 
Inez.  After  what  she  had  .already  said,  Inez 
could  not  allow  herself  to  be  absorbed  so 
fully  by  Blake  as  she  had  formerly  done ;  and 
there  was  now  in  her  mind  a  sense  of  great 
uneasiness  as  to  what  Bessie  might  do,  which 
feeling  was  by  no  means  lessened  by  her 
friend's  actions. 

Soon  after  they  had  seated  themselves, 
Bessie  began  to  move  away  from  Inez  as  far 
as  possible,  thus  ostentatiously  showing  a 
desire  to  leave  the  lovers  by  themselves,  and 
kept  her  face  turned  away,  as  though  she 
would  on  no  account  be  an  eye-witness  of 
their  proceedings.  All  this  embarrassed  Inez 


greatly,  for  the  relations  between  herself  and 
Blake  were  thus  far  of  a  purely  friendly  char 
acter,  nor  had  she  as  yet  thought  very  much 
of  any  thing  more.  Her  delicacy  was  shocked 
excessively  by  Bessie's  movements,  but  she 
did  not  know  how  to  prevent  them.  She 
shifted  her  seat  once  or  twice,  so  as  to  keep 
near  to  her  friend ;  but,  on  every  such  occa 
sion,  Bessie  would  make  such  a  point  of  re 
moving  again,  that  it  seemed  more  unpleasant 
to  follow  her  than  to  sit  still.  At  length  Inez 
could  endure  it  no  longer,  but  rose,  and,  call 
ing  Bessie,  who  by  that  time  had  taken  up 
her  station  with  her  back  turned  to  the  lov 
ers  about  a  hundred  yards  away,  she  waited 
for  her  to  join  her. 

Bessie  approached  with  an  air  of  demurest 
gravity,  which  would  have  made  Inez  laugh 
if  it  had  not  been  so  provoking.  As  she  came 
near  she  threw  at  Inez  a  deprecating  glance, 
and,  with  an  air  of  childish  shyness,  walked 
by  her  side  on  a  line  with  the  others,  but  on 
the  other  side  of  the  road.  Inez  gradually 
drew  nearer  to  her,  whereupon  Bessie  allowed 
herself  to  fall  behind. 

None  of  this  was  noticed  by  Blake,  who 
was  too  much  absorbed  by  the  joy  of  the 
moment  to  detect  any  thing  so  covert  as  Bes 
sie's  course  of  teasing.  In  fact,  he  felt  quite 
grateful  to  her  for  keeping  away,  and  allow 
ing  him  thus  to  have  Inez  all  to  himself.  This 
feeling  he  could  not  help  showing,  and  this 
only  increased  the  annoyance  and  embarrass 
ment  of  Inez.  The  position  of  a  young  lady 
in  the  presence  of  an  ardent  lover  is  never 
quite  free  from  embarrassment  when  specta 
tors  are  by ;  but,  when  the  spectator  is  one 
who  has  shown  herself  to  be  a  merciless 
tease,  capable  of  dragging  to  the  light  the 
most  hidden  secrets  of  the  young  lady  afore 
said,  why  it  stands  to  reason  that  the  embar 
rassment  must  become  intolerable.  So  it 
proved  with  Inez.  Her  attention  was  thus 
distracted  between  Blake  and  Bessie;  and, 
if  she  noticed  any  unusual  devotion  of  man 
ner  or  earnestness  of  tone,  it  only  served  to 
excite  her  fears  that  Bessie  would  see  it  also, 
and  treasure  it  up  in  her  memory  for  future 
reference. 

When  Bessie,  therefore,  fell  behind,  Inez 
slackened  her  pace  also ;  upon  which  the  for 
mer  managed  to  increase  the  distance  between 
them  still  farther. 

"Bessie,"  said  Inez,  stopping  short  and 
waiting  for  her  to  come  up,  "  I'm  afraid  you 


VILLENEUVE. 


must  be  fatigued  after  your  journey  yester 
day." 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,  Inez  dearest,"  said  Bessie, 
with  a  smile.  "  Not  at  all.  I  am  watching 
something  that  is  awfully  amusing.  Go  on. 
I'll  join  you  as  soon  as — as  it  is  advisable." 

Upon  this  Inez  turned  away  in  despair, 
and  walked  thus  with  Blake  back  to  the  ho 
tel,  while  Bessie  followed  at  a  little  dis 
tance. 

The  hotel  stood  facing  the  water.  In 
front  of  it  was  a  portico.  At  this  portico 
stood  an  elderly  gentleman,  whose  appear 
ance  had  in  it  much  that  would  arrest  the 
attention  of  the  mcst  casual  observer.  He 
was  a  man  of  medium  height,  and  might  have 
been  about  fifty  years  of  age,  yet  there  was  an 
air  of  decrepitude  about  him  which  must 
have  been  caused  by  some  other  thing  than 
his  fifty  years.  He  looked  as  though  he 
might  once  have  been  portly,  and  that  too 
not  very  long  ago ;  but  now  the  ample  out 
line  of  his  frame  had  receded  somewhat,  and 
an  air*  of  looseness  was  thus  given  to  his  fig 
ure.  His  hair  was  quite  gray ;  his  face  was 
Btill  full,  but  every  trace  of  color  had  gone 
from  it.  He  stood  on  the  portico,  leaning 
heavily  against  the  base  of  a  pillar,  and  his 
face  was  turned  toward  the  water. 

It  was  this  face,  and  this  alone,  that  gave 
this  man  his  striking  appearance.  It  was 
no  common  face.  It  was  pale,  ghastly  pale, 
in  fact,  and  the  flesh  which  had  once  rounded 
its  outlines  had  shrunk  away,  and  now  hung 
loosely  in  folds.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
vacancy,  with  a  far-off,  abstracted  look.  It 
was  not  the  lake,  or  the  mountains,  or  any 
material  scene,  that  he  was  looking  at.  The 
placid  water  and  the  towering  heights  were 
reflected  on  his  retina,  but  had  no  place  in 
his  thoughts.  There  was  trouble  in  that 
face,  deep,  perplexed,  and  bewildered ;  and 
he  who  had  thus  come  forth  to  gaze  upon  the 
face  of  Nature,  presented  his  own  face  to  the 
gaze  of  his  fellow-man,  and  showed  there 
something  so  woe-worn,  so  tragic  in  its  som 
bre  gloom,  so  full  of  despair,  that  it  seemed 
as  if  the  traces  of  crime,  or  of  a  ruined  life, 
were  marked  upon  it. 

The  ladies  and  their  companion  walked 
toward  the  hotel,  and  saw  the  old  nlan, 
though  they  were  not  yet  near  enough  to  see 
his  face. 

"  Papa  is  down,"  said  Inez. 

"  Yes,"  said  Blake.     "  He  seems  to  be  en 


joying  the  view.     I  feel  confident  that  this 
place  will  benefit  him." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  so ! " 

As  she  said  this,  a  footman  came  up  to  the 
portico.  He  had  come  from  a  house  not  far 
away.  He  had  a  letter  in  his  hand.  This 
letter  he  handed  to  the  old  man.  He  took  it 
and  opened  it  hastily.  As  he  looked  at  it  a 
change  came  over  his  face.  With  a  quick  gest 
ure  he  crushed  the  letter  together  in  his  hand, 
and  looked  in  an  abstracted  way  all  around. 
Blake  and  the  ladies  were  near  enough  now 
for  him  to  see  them,  but  he  did  not  notice 
them  at  all.  The  look  seemed  to  have  been 
an  instinct  blindly  obeyed.  He  then  turned 
his  back  to  the  street,  and,  opening  the  letter, 
stood  there  reading  it.  As  he  did  so,  he 
staggered  slightly,  and  one  hand  caught  at  the 
pillar  for  support. 

These  strange  actions,  and  the  singular 
attitude  of  the  old  man,  arrested  the  atten 
tion  of  Inez  and  Blake.  They  stopped,  and 
looked,  and  as  they  stopped  Bessie  came  up 
to  them. 

Suddenly  the  old  man  started.  He  stag 
gered  forward,  and  half  turned.  They  were 
near  enough  now  to  see  his  face  plainly.  Up 
on  that  face  they  saw  a  wild  look  of  terror — 
a  look  such  as  a  drowning  man  may  give 
while  seeking  for  help. 

Bessie  caught  Inez  by  the  arm. 

"  Look  !  Oh,  do  look  at  your  papa,  Inez 
dear!"  she  cried.  "Something's  the  mat 
ter." 

There  was  no  need  to  tell  Inez  this.  She 
had  seen  it,  but  so  great  was  her  horror,  that 
she  had  stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  mute  and 
motionless.  But,  as  Bessie  spoke,  Blake 
started  off  at  a  run  toward  the  portico. 

If  he  anticipated  what  was  about  to  hap 
pen,  he  was  too  late.  Before  Blake  had  gone 
a  half-dozen  steps,  the  old  man  gave  a  deep 
groan,  and,  suddenly  collapsing,  sank  down 
senseless.  At  that  moment  Blake  reached 
him.  The  next  instant  a  dozen  servants  had 
arrived  at  the  spot.  Then  Inez  came  flying 
up  with  a  pale  face,  wild  with  alarm.  The 
sight  that  met  her  eyes  could  not  lessen  that 
alarm  one  whit.  That  prostrate  figure — that 
head  swaying  loosely  as  they  raised  him  up, 
those  nerveless  hands,  those  staring  eyes, 
those  venerable  hairs  soiled  with  dust — all 
this  only  served  to  intensify  her  fears.  Un 
accustomed  to  scenes  like  these,  she  lost  all 
presence  of  mind,  and,  clasping  her  hands 


AN  OPEN"  QUESTION. 


m  despair,  she  watched  the  servants  with 
white  lips  and  staring  eyes,  as  they  raised  the 
senseless  form  and  bore  it  into  the  house,  and 
up  the  stairs  to  his  chamber. 

Here  Blake  sent  away  all  the  servants  ex- 
cept  one.  He  tried  to  urge  Inez  to  go  also 
but  she  refused.  Thereupon  he  devoted  him' 
self  to  the  care  of  his  patient,  and  sought  in 
all  possible  ways  to  resuscitate  him.  An 
hour  passed  away,  and,  at  the  end  of  that 
time,  there  was  little  change  perceptible.  He 
was  breathing,  however,  and  he  had  closed 
his  eyes.  These  were  encouraging  signs,  but 
the  stupor  yet  remained,  and  it  did  not 
seem  as  though  he  could  be  roused  out  of 
this. 

Several  hours  more  passed,  and  mid-day 
came.  Blake  now  made  one  more  effort  to 
induce  Inez  to  leave. 

"I  assure  you,  Miss  Wyverne,"  said  he 
earnestly,  «  that  your  father  is  now  doing  as 
well  as  can  be  expected  under  the  circum 
stances.  These  sudden  shocks  are  very  much 
to  be  dreaded,  but  in  this  case  the  worst  I 
hope,  is  passed.  You  see  him  now— he  is 
sleeping.  It  may,  perhaps,  benefit  him  in  the 
end.  He  has  not  had  much  sleep  of 
late." 

Blake  spoke  this  as  the  man,  and  not  as 
the  doctor,  because  he  wished  to  give  Inez 
some  hope,  and  Inez  grasped  at  this  hope 
which  was  held  out. 

"Sleep?  "she  said.  «  Yes,  it  is-it  must 
be^  sleep-but,  oh,  if  he  had  only  waked  once 
—just  to  speak  one  word  ! " 

"  H«  will  wake  in  time.  But  let  us  be 
patient.  Do  not  let  us  wake  him  now  Miss 
Wyverm.  And  now  will  you  not  try  to  get 
a  little  -eat  for  yourself?  Let  me  entreat  you 
as— as— ah— your  medical  adviser— to— to 
take  ca*3  of  yourself." 

Inez  at  length  allowed  herself  to  be  per- 
suaded  *o  retire,  and  sought  her  own  room 
Here  Bessie  came  to  her,  and  held  a  letter  in 
her  hand. 

"In*z,  darling,"  said  she,  "isn't  this  aw- 
.  You  know  your  poor,  dear  papa  was 
reading  a  letter  when  he  fainted.  It  was  on 
the  portico.  He  let  it  fall.  I  s<w  it  and 
picked  it  up.  This  is  it.  You  had  better  read 
it,  and  perhaps  you  can  find  out  the  cause  of 
all  this." 

With  these  words  she  handed  to  Inez  the 
letter  which  the  old  man  had  been  reading. 
Inez  took  it,  and  read  the  following : 


"PAEIS. 

MY  DEAR  HKSNIGAR  :  I  am  sorry  you 
are  not  the  man  you  used  to  be,  for  you  need 
all  your  strength  now.  The  event  which  we 
have  all  along  dreaded  as  barely  possible  has 
at  last  come  to  pass.  B.  M.  is  alive !  Worse 
—he  has  come  back.  I  have  seen  him  with 
my  own  eyes  in  Rome.  He  has  not  seen  me 
I  have  learned  that,  after  he  has  attended  to 
his  ecclesiastical  business,  he  intends  to  visit 
you.  Fortunately,  you  are  out  of  England 
Would  it  not  be  well  for  you  to  go  into  liid- 
ing  for  a  time— in  Russia,  or  the  East,  or,  bet- 
ter  still— America  ? 

"I  have  just  arrived  here,  and  leave  to- 
night  for  London,  on  important  business.     I 
hope  soon  to  see  you.     You  had  better  send 
away  those  girls  at  once.    Above  all,  you  must 
get  rid  of  that  boy.    You  were  mad  to  en- 
courage  him.     His  mind  has  been  poisoned 
by  his  mother.     Depend  upon  it,  he  will  ruin 
you.     At  all  events  send  him  off  at  once  and 
get  Inez  out  of  the  way.     B.  M.  will  hunt  you 
up,  and  find  you,  unless  you  fly  out  «f  his 
reach.    It  seems  to  me  that  it  would  be  ad- 
visable,  if  possible,  to  get  up  a  well-concoct- 
ed  death— so  as  to  throw  him  off  your  track. 
Think  of  this. 

I  hope  to  see  you  before  a  week. 
"  In  great  haste, 
"  Yours, 

"KEVIN  MAGRATH." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IS     IT    DELIRIUM? 


To  Inez,  this  extraordinary  letter  was  ut 
terly  unintelligible,  and  yet  terrible  on  ac 
count  of  the  dark  and  impenetrable  mystery 
m  which  it  was  shrouded.     She  had  read  it 
with  breathless   interest,  yet  not  until  she 
reached  the  end  was  she  aware  of  the  fact 
that  she  was  reading  that  which  had  never 
been  intended  for  her  eyes,  or  for  any  human 
eyes  except  those  of  Hennigar  Wyverne  him 
self.     The  deed  was  one  which  she  felt  to  be 
dishonorable  in  itself,  yet  she  could  not  blame 
herself.     She  had  read  it  solely  out  of  a  pure 
and  generous  impulse— a  desire  to  learn  the 
cause  of  this  sudden  blow  which  had  fallen 
upon  her  father.     She  had  read  it  without 
hesitation,  because  she  had  never  imagined 
that  around  that  honored  father  could  cling 


IS   IT   DELIRIUM? 


any  secret  that  had  to  be  veiled  from  her 
eyes  or  from  any  eyes.  She  had  read  it,  and 
the  deed  for  good  or  for  evil  was  done  beyond 
recall,  nor  could  she  forget  one  single  word 
of  all  that  ill-omened  and  evil-boding  letter. 

As  she  had  read  it,  Bessie  had  stood 
watching  her ;  and  now,  as  Inez  looked  up, 
she  saw  her  friend's  eyes  fixed  on  her  with 
sharp,  eager  scrutiny.  The  moment  that  Bes 
sie  caught  the  glance  of  Inez,  she  turned  her 
eyes  away ;  not  so  soon,  however,  but  that 
the  latter  could  read  the  meaning  that  was 
in  them.  By  the  expression  of  Bessie's  face, 
and  the  look  that  was  in  her  eyes,  Inez  saw 
plainly  that  she,  too,  must  have  read  the  let 
ter  ;  that  she,  too,  had  been  startled  by  its 
mysterious  meaning,  and,  was  now  waiting  to 
see  the  effect  produced  upon  her.  At  this 
discovery  an  indignant  feeling  at  once  arose, 
which,  however,  in  a  few  moments,  was 
checked.  For,  after  all,  how  could  she  blame 
her?  She  knew  Bessie's  thoughtless  and 
wayward  nature,  her  inquisitiveness,  and  her 
impulsive  ways  ;  she  could  easily  understand 
how  she,  too,  could  read  it  with  the  same 
thoughtless  haste  that  had  characterized  her 
own  perusal.  So  she  checked  the  sharp 
•words  that  arose  to  her  lips,  and  merely  re 
marked  : 

"It's  some  business  of  poor  papa's.  I 
don't  understand  it,  and  I  ought  not  to  have 
read  it." 

She  then  flung  herself  upon  the  sofa,  and 
turned  her  face  to  the  wall.  Whereupon  Bes 
sie  softly  left  the  room. 

Left  thus  to  herself,  Inez,  as  she  lay  on 
the  sofa,  became  a  prey  to  all  the  thoughts 
which  that  letter  was  calculated  to  create. 
The  more  she  thought  about  it,  the  less  was 
she  able  to  understand  it ;  but  the  secret  of 
the  letter,  though  impenetrable,  was  some 
thing  which  she  could  not  avoid  thinking 
upon,  and,  though  the  full  meaning  was  be 
yond  her  conjecture,  there  were  a  few  plain 
and  very  ugly  facts  which  stood  forth  clearly 
and  unmistakably. 

First  of  all,  she  saw  that  there  was  some 
one  living  of  whom  her  father  stood  in  mor 
tal  dread,  named  here  as  B.  M.  The  dread 
of  this  mysterious  man  was  evidently  no  new 
thing.  He  had  been  absent  long,  but  they 
had  always  considered  his  return  possible. 
They  had  hoped  for  his  death,  but  found  that 
he  was  alive.  This  B.  M.  was  in  Rome.  He 
was  on  his  way  to  England,  to  see  her  father. 


Secondly,  so  great  was  the  terror  that 
attended  upon  the  presence  of  this  B.  M. 
that  the  correspondent's  first  suggestion  to 
her  father  was  instant  and  immediate  flight, 
even  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth — 
Russia,  the  East,  America. 

Thirdly,  this  correspondent  urged  him  to 
get  rid  of  the  girls.  The  girls  !  What  girls  ? 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  she  herself  and 
Bessie  were  meant,  and  herself  more  par 
ticularly,  since  greater  emphasis  was  laid  on 
her  name.  This  dark  secret  affected  her 
then,  but  how  ? 

Fourthly,  who  was  "  the  boy  ?  "  About 
this  Inez  could  have  no  doubt  whatever. 
"  The  boy  "  must  be  Dr.  Blake.  To  no  other 
could  the  term  "  encouragement "  apply.  He 
had  certainly  been  "  encouraged."  Though 
an  acquaintance  of  no  very  long  standing,  her 
father  had  manifested  for  Dr.  Blake  a  regard 
which  was  wonderful,  and  quite  unaccount 
able.  This  must  be  the  "  encouragement  " 
of  which  the  letter  spoke.  But  who  was  the 
boy's  mother,  and  how  had  she  "poisoned" 
his  mind  ?  How  was  it  that  Dr.  Blake  could 
ever  be  the  ruin  of  her  father?  Had  he 
any  connection  with  those  dark  events  of 
the  past?  Dr.  Blake  had  always  seemed  the 
most  open,  frank,  and  transparent  nature  in 
the  world ;  and  she  could  not  understand 
how  in  his  breast  there  could  lurk  the  knowl 
edge  of  any  secret  that  could  make  him  able 
to  ruin  her  father,  even  if  he  were  capable  of  - 
wishing  it. 

Fifthly,  this  correspondent  hinted  that  a 
pretended  death  might  be  advisable.  Such  a 
hint  seemed  to  Inez  the  most  terrible  thing  in 
the  whole  letter.  It  revealed  an  abyss  into 
which  she  dared  not  allow  her  thoughts  to 
venture.  What  terrors  must  cling  to  the 
past  life  of  her  father  when  there  impended 
over  him  a  danger  so  great  that  he  could  only 
escape  it  by  instant  flight  or  pretended  death ! 
Alas  !  as  her  father  now  was,  if  death  was  to 
be  thought  of,  it  might  be  only  too  real. 

Again,  this  thing  of  terror,  this  mysterious 
"  B.  M.,"  who  was  he  ?  What  was  meant  by 
his  "  ecclesiastical  "  business  ?  Could  he  be 
a  priest?  It  must  be  so.  Who  else  but  a 
priest  could  have  ecclesiastical  business  at 
Rome? 

And,  finally,  who  was  this  correspondent 
himself?  He  called  himself  "  Kevin  Magrath." 
Could  it  be  a  real  name  ?  It  was  evidently 
an  Irish  name.  She  had  never  heard  of  it 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


before  in  all  her  life.  The  sound  was  utter 
unfamiliar.  Whoever  he  was,  he  seemed 
lead  a  roving  life,  going  from  Rome  to  Pan 
and  from  Paris  to  London,  and  promising  t 
come  here  to  Villeneuve.  Whoever  he  wa 
he  must  be  an  old  friend  of  her  father's,  anc 
an  associate  in  this  dark  mystery.  Wit 
him,  too,  her  father  must  have  kept  up  a  con 
stant  correspondence,  for  how  else  could  tin 
Kevin  Magrath  know  his  present  address  t 
be  such  an  obscure  place  as  Villeneuve  ? 

She  thought  for  a  moment  of  asking  Bcs 
sie  about  this  man,  but  the  next  moment  sh 
dismissed  the  thought.     She  felt  an  invincibl 
repugnance  to  making  one  like  Bessie— o 
any  one,  in  fact— a  confidante  of  her  presen 
feelings.     This  secret  seemed  a  dishonor  t 
her  father;  and  Bessie's   knowledge  of  th 
existence  of  any  such   secret  was  of  itself 
most  disagreeable  to  her.     Instead,  there 
fore,  of  saying  any  thing  to  her  friend  abou 
it,  she  saw  that  it  would  be  far  better  to  hide 
her  feelings  from  her,  and  make  it  appear,  if 
possible,  that  she  thought  nothing  of  it  what 
ever.     By  so  doing,  she  might  induce  Bessie 
to   suppose  that  it  was   of  no  importance 
This  she  hoped,  but  the  recollection  of  that 
look  which  she  had  encountered  from  Bessie 
made  her  suspect  that  behind  all  "her  friend's 
apparent   volatility  and  frivolity  there  were 
other  qualifies  of  a  graver  character — quali 
ties,  too,  which  might  prove  formidable  in 
the  future  if  it  should  ever  happen  that  Bes 
sie's  interests  should  be  blended  with  those 
of  the  enemies  of  her  father. 

The  impenetrable  secret  thus  baffled  Inez 
completely,  and  there  was  nothing  left  but  to 
wait  for  the  disclosures  of  the  future,  and 
bear  the  intermediate  suspense  as  best  she 
could. 

This  Inez  resolved  to  do,  and  her  resolu 
tion  was  made  easy  by  the  situation  of  Mr. 
Wyverne.  He  lay,  as  he  had  been  pros- 
trated,  without  much  change,  upon  the 
last  verge  of  life,  motionless,  his  breathing 
short  and  quick,  opening  his  eyes  wildly  at 
times,  murmuring  incessantly  to  himself,  and 
all  the  while  his  heart  throbbing  fast  and 
furious  He  was  not  senseless  now,  for  he 
could  answer  when  he  was  addressed,  but  he 
seemed  to  be  the  prey  of  the  most  agonizing 
feelings,  the  torment  of  which  made  him  un 
observant  of  things  around  him. 

Inez  now  watched  over  him  incessantly, 
and  the  doctor  also  was  equally  devoted.  He 


did  not  seek  to  conceal  the  truth  from  her. 
The  danger  was  extreme.  He  knew  it,,  and  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  deceive  her.  She, 
on  her  part,  being  thus  forced  so  constantly 
into  the  society  of  Blake,  and  with  her  secret 
gnawing  at  her  heart,  more  than  once  thought 
of  asking  him  about  it ;  but  no  sooner  had 
the  thought  came  than  it  was  repelled.  What 
ever  might  be  her  feelings  toward  him,  she 
saw  that  this  was  clearly  a  case  in  which  he 
could  be  of  no  assistance  to  her.  She  could 
not  show  that  letter  to  one  who,  after  all,  was 
a  stranger  in  a  certain  sense.  She  could  not 
ask  his  advice  in  a  case  where  a  father's  se 
cret  and  a  father's  honor  were  involved. 

Day  after  day  passed,  and  there  was  no 
change.  One  day  Inez  implored  Blake  to  tell 
her  the  worst. 

'  I  can't  bear  this  suspense,"  said  she.  "I 
expect  the  worst,  the  very  worst,  and  I  try  to 
make  up  my  mind  to  it ;  but  I  should  like  to 
know  if  there  may  be  any  ground  for  hope." 
"  Miss  Wyverne,"  said  the  doctor,  sadly, 
while  there's  life,  there's  hope." 

"I  know — I  know,"  said  Inez,  "  that  old 
formula,  used  to  disguise  the  worst  intelli 
gence." 

Blake  sighed,  and  looked  at  her  compas 
sionately. 

"  Oh,  how  I  wish,"  said  he,  "  that  I  could 
spare  you  this!" 

You  have  no  hope,  then  ?  "  wailed  forth 
Inez,  looking  at  him  with  awful  eyes. 

Blake  returned  her  glance  with  a  mournful 
ook,  and  in  silence. 

Inez  had  hoped  for  some  faint  encourage- 
ment,  and  this  silence  was  almost  too  much. 
But,  by  a  strong  effort,  she  controlled  her- 
elf. 

"  Tell  me  all,"  she  said,  in  a  scarce  audible 
oice.  "  Let  me  know  all." 

"Agitation,"  said    Blake,   solemnly   and 
lowly,  "  is  fatal.     If  I  could  see  any  hope  of 
iving  him  from  this — if  I  could  only  gain  con- 
-ol  over  his  thoughts  !  But  there  is  something 
n  his  mind  always.     He  never  sleeps.     He 
ats  nothing.     Opiates  have  no  effect.     It  is 
lis  mind.    There  is  trouble,  and  it  overwhelms 
urn.     If  he  should  sleep,  his  dreams  would 
>e  worse  than  his  waking  thoughts.     I  can- 
ot  '  minister  to  a  mind  diseased.'  " 

At  this,  Inez  went  away  to  her  own  room 
nd  wept. 

So  Wyverne  lay,  struggling  with  the  dark 
ecret  that  was  over  his  soul,  murmuring 


IS  IT   DELIKIUM? 


words  that  were  unintelligible  to  those  beside 
him,  with  that  in  his  mind  which  was  a  hor 
ror  by  night  and  by  day.  Thus  a  week 
passed,  and  during  this  time  he  grew  worse 
and  worse.  Of  this  there  was  no  doubt.  The 
doctor  saw  it.  Inez  knew  it. 

At  length  one  day  came  when  he  opened 
his  eyes,  and  fixed  them  with  a  glassy  stare 
upon  Inez,  who,  as  usual,  was  sitting  at  his 
bedside. 

"  Papa,  dear,"  said  she,  in  a  choking 
voice. 

"  Who — are — you  ?  "  were  the  words  that 
came  with  a  gasp  from  the  sick  man  on  the 
bed. 

Inez  shuddered. 

She  took  his  hand  tenderly  in  hers,  and, 
bending  over  him,  she  said  : 

"Don't  you  know  me,  papa  dear — your 
daughter — your  child — your  Inez  ?  " 

Mr.  Wyverne  frowned,  and  snatched  his 
hand  away. 

"  I  have  no  daughter,"  he  gasped.  "  You 
are  not  mine.  You  are  his.  He  is  coming 
for  you — for  you  and — for — vengeance  !  He 
is  coming.  He  is  coming.  He  is  coming — " 

A  groan  ended  this,  but  the  sick  man 
went  on  murmuring,  in  a  sing-song  way,  like 
some  horrible  chant,  the  words,  "He  is  com 
ing  !  He  is  coming  !  He  is  coming !  He  is 
coining ! " 

A  cold  shudder  passed  through  Inez.  She 
drew  back  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 
Was  this  real?  Did  he  mean  it?  What 
horror  was  this  ? 

Blake  had  heard  all,  and  had  seen  her 
distress.  He  bent  over  her  and  whispered  : 

"  Don't  be  distressed  at  what  he  says.  He 
don't  know  you.  It's  his  delirium." 

The  whisper  seemed  to  attract  the  atten 
tion  of  the  sick  man.  He  turned  his  eyes  till 
they  rested  upon  Blake's  face.  His  own  ex 
pression  changed.  There  came  a  gentle  smile 
upon  his  wan  features  ;  he  sighed  ;  and  then 
he  reached  forth  his  hand  faintly. 

Blake  saw  this,  and  took  his  hand  won- 
deringly. 

"Basil!"  said  Mr.  Wyverne,  in  a  soft, 
low  voice,  full  of  a  strange,  indescribable 
tenderness,  "  Basil — is  your — your  mother 
still  alive  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Blake,  full  of  amazement — 
Mr.  Wyverne  had  called  him  by  his  Christian 
name ! 

The  siclf  man  closed   his   eyes.     There 


were  tears  in  them  —  they  trickled  slowly 
down.  Inez  still  sat  with  her  face  buried  in 
her  hands.  Blake  wiped  those  tears  away, 
and  waited  to  hear  what  might  be  said,  with 
all  his  soul  full  of  wonder  and  awe,  and  a 
certain  fearful  expectation. 

"  Basil,"  said  Mr.  Wyverne,  opening  his 
eyes  again,  and  fastening  them  with  the  same 
look  upon  Blake,  speaking  faintly  and  wea 
rily,  and  with  frequent  hesitation,  "I  dare 
not  tell  you — ask  her  to  tell  you — all — all — 
all." 

Once  more  his  thoughts  wandered,  but  he 
still  clung  to  Blake's  hand,  and  would  not  let 
it  go. 

After  an  interval,  he  opened  his  eyes  and 
looked  at  Blake. 

"  Kiss  me — Basil,"  he  said. 

At  this  Blake  bent  down  and  kissed  the 
forehead  of  the  sick  man — damp  and  cold  as 
with  the  chill-dew  of  death. 

Not  one  word  of  all  this  had  been  lost  on 
Inez,  and  at  these  last  words  she  raised  her 
self,  and  saw  through  her  tears  what  was 
done.  Full  of  wonder,  and  deeply  wounded 
also  at  the  neglect  with  which  she  was 
treated,  she  sat  there  a  prey  to  the  deepest 
grief.  Blake  saw  this,  and,  as  the  sick  man 
again  closed  his  eyes,  he  murmured  in  het 
ear : 

"Ifs  his  delirium.'1'' 

The  sick  man  again  opened  bis  eyes ;  they 
rested  upon  Blake  as  before,  and  then  wan- 
dered  toward  Inez,  whose  pale  face  was  turned 
toward  him,  and  whose  eyes  were  fixed  en- 
treatingly  upon  him,  as  though  seeking  for 
some  look  of  love. 

He  looked  at  her  mildly,  and  then,  turning 
his  eyes  to  Blake,  there  came  over  his  face  a 
smile  of  strange  sweetness. 

«  You— love— her— Basil  ?  " 

These  words  came  from  him  faintly.  As 
he  said  this,  the  face  of  Inez  flamed  up  with 
a  sudden  and  violent  flush.  Blake  said 
nothing,  but  pressed  his  hand.  The  sick 
man  took  Blake's  hand  in  his  own  left  hand, 
and  reached  out  his  right  hand  feebly,  look 
ing  at  Inez.  She  took  his  hand  in  hers,  not 
knowing  what  he  wished,  but  still  hoping  for 
some  word  of  love.  lie  drew  her  hand  tow 
ard  him,  and  joined  it  to  that  of  Blake's, 
pressing  the  two  together  between  his  feeble 
palms.  Then  he  looked  at  them  both,  with 
that  same  strange,  sweet  smile  on  his  face. 

"  My  children  !  my  children  ! "  he  mur- 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


mured.  "  My  children  ! "  he  continued,  after  a 
pause,  "  you  will  love  one  another.  You  will 
— love  her — Basil — and — make  her — yours — 
promise ! "  and  he  looked  earnestly  at  Blake. 

To  Inez  all  this  was  exquisitely  painful, 
and  Blake  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

"  Swear,"  said  the  sick  man. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Blake,  in  a  low  voice. 

Mr.  Wyverne  gave  a  sigh  of  satisfaction, 
and  lay  for  some  time  exhausted,  but  still 
holding  their  hands.  Once  more  he  ral 
lied. 

"Basil,"  said  he,  "I  cannot  tell  you — 
what  is  on — my  mind — dare  not — you  shall 
know  all — your  mother — ask  her — you  will 
forgive  me,  Basil — my  son." 

Son  !  that  word  had  a  strange  sound,  but 
it  seemed  to  mean  son-in-law,  and  thus  they 
both  understood  it.  But  in  the  mind  of  Inez 
this  declaration  interweaved  itself  with  other 
thoughts  which  had  been  called  up  by  that 
mysterious  letter. 

"  Your  mother,"  continued  the  sick  man, 
looking  at  Blake,  "will  tell  you  all  —  all. 
Swear  that  you — forgive  me." 

"I  swear,"  said  Blake,  willing  to  say  any 
thing  which  might  humor  the  sick  man's  fan 
cies. 

"  And  you — you,"  continued  Mr.  Wyverne, 
turning  his  glassy  eyes  toward  Inez  with  an 
agonized  look,  "you — his  daughter — you  will 
tell  all  to  him — that  I  repent — and  die — of — 
of — remorse  ! " 

At  this  Inez  tore  her  hand  away,  and 
once  more  flung  herself  forward  in  an  agony 
Of  grief. 

"ICs  his  delirium  !  "  whispered  the  doctor 
again.  These  words  restored  Inez.  It  was 
all  fancy,  she  thought.  It  was  not — no,  it 
could  not  be  the  truth. 

But  now  the  sick  man  seemed  utterly  ex 
hausted.  As  Inez  raised  herself  up,  and 
looked  at  him  once  more,  she  saw  that  a 
change  had  come  over  him,  and  that  change 
frightened  her. 

"  I'm  dying,"  he  gasped,  "  send  a  priest — 
a  priest ! " 

At  this  Blake  at  once  hurried  from  the 
room. 

He  did  not  have  to  go  far. 

There  was  a  priest  in  the  hotel.  He  had 
arrived  the  night  before.  He  had  come  from 
Italy,  and  was  on  his  way  to  Paris.  The  doc 
tor  had  beard  of  this,  and  went  at  once  in 
search  of  him.  The  priest  had  arrived  late, 


and  had  slept  late.  He  was  just  dressed,  and 
thus  Blake  found  him. 

He  was  a  man  of  medium  stature,  with 
dark  complexion,  browned  by  exposure  to  the 
weather.  He  had  piercing  black  eyes  and 
heavy  eyebrows.  His  jaw  was  square,  mas 
sive,  and  resolute;  yet,  in  spite  of  all  this, 
the  face  was  one  full  of  mildness  and  gentle 
ness — showing  a  strong  nature,  yet  a  kindly 
one — a  face  where  dwelt  the  signs  of  a  power 
which  might  achieve  any  purpose,  and  the  in 
dications  of  a  nature  which  was  quick  to  sym 
pathy,  and  full  of  human  feeling.  His  frame 
was  erect  and  vigorous.  His  hair  was  black, 
and  sprinkled  with  gray.  He  could  not  be 
over  fifty,  and  might  be  much  younger.  This 
was  the  man  that  Blake  found. 

The  priest  at  once  prepared  to  comply 
with  Blake's  request,  and  followed  him  to  the 
sick  man's  chamber.  As  he  entered,  Inez 
shrank  out  of  sight,  and  retreated  to  her 
room,  waiting  there,  with  a  heart  full  of  de 
spair,  the  result  of  this  last  interview. 

The  priest  took  no  notice  of  her.  His 
eyes,  as  he  entered,  were  fixed  upon  the  bed 
where  lay  the  man  who  had  sought  his  offices 
at  this  last  hour  of  life. 

There  lay  Hennigar  Wyverne. 

A  great  change  had  passed  over  him  since 
the  morning  when  he  had  received  that  letter. 
Feeble  though  he  then  was,  there  still  might 
be  seen  in  him  some  remnant  of  his  former 
self,  something  that  might  show  what  he  once 
was ;  but  now  not  a  vestige  remained ;  the 
week's  illness  had  altered  him  so  greatly  that 
he  had  passed  beyond  the  power  of  recogni 
tion  ;  he  was  fearfully  emaciated ;  he  was 
ghastly  pale ;  his  cheek-bones  protruded ;  his 
eyes  were  deep-sunk ;  his  lips  were  drawn 
apart  over  his  teeth ;  his  white  hair  was  tan 
gled  about  his  head,  and  short,  gray  bristles 
covered  his  once  smooth-shaven  chin.  He 
lay  there  muttering  to  himself  unintelligible 
things,  and  picking  aimlessly  at  the  bed 
clothes. 

The  priest  approached.  Blake  stood  by 
the  door. 

The  priest  bent  over  the  sick  man,  and 
roused  him. 

Wyverne  opened  his  glassy  eyes  and  fast 
ened  them  on  the  priest.  As  he  did  so,  there 
came  over  him  an  appalling  change. 

In  those  dull,  glassy  eyes  there  shone  the 
light  of  a  sudden  and  awful  recognition  ;  and, 
with  that  recognition,  there  was  a  look  of  ter- 


THE   GOLD   CRUCIFIX. 


ror  unsneakable,  tf  horror  intolerable.  Yet 
that  look  seemed  fascinated ;  it  could  not  be 
•withdrawn ;  it  was  fastened  on  the  face  before 
him  in  one  fixed  gaze.  Suddenly,  and  with  a 
groan,  he  gave  a  convulsive  start,  as  though 
he  would  fly  from  that  which  either  his  eyes 
or  his  wild  fancy  had  thus  presented  before 
him.  But  the  effort  was  too  much.  His 
strength  was  gone.  This  was  its  last  effort. 
One  movement,  and  then  he  fell  down. 

He  lay  motionless  now. 

Blake  was  just  about  leaving  the  room; 
but  he  saw  this,  and  waited.  As  Wyverne 
fell,  he  rushed  up  to  the  bedside  with  a  pale 
face.  He  looked  at  the  form  which  lay  there, 
and  then  at  the  priest.  The  priest  looked 
with  a  mournful  face  at  the  figure  on  the 
bed. 

There  it  lay,  the  thin,  emaciated  frame 
from  which  the  soul  had  gone  !  That  horror 
which  had  been  the  latest  expression  of  those 
features  still  lurked  there ;  the  eyes  stared  at 
the  ceiling ;  the  jaws  had  fallen. 

Blake  stooped  down  and  closed,  with  ten 
der  hands,  the  eyes  of  the  dead. 

"  I  have  come  too  late,"  said  the  priest,  in 
a  low  and  mournful  voice. 

"  The  delirium  has  lasted  for  a  week," 
said  Blake.  "  He  has  imagined  something 
terrible  in  you." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    GOLD    CRUCIFIX. 

THUS  the  blow  had  fallen  at  last;  and, 
though  Inez  had  tried  to  prepare  herself  for 
it,  she  felt  crushed  by  it  when  it  came.  For 
the  death  itself  she  might  have  been  ready ; 
it  was  not  the  mere  fact  of  bereavement,  not 
merely  the  sorrow  of  a  loving  daughter,  that 
now  overwhelmed  her.  It  was  something  far 
different  which  had  its  origin  in  the  circum 
stances  that  had  preceded  and  immediately 
accompanied  his  death.  Already  she  had  felt 
sore  distressed  and  perplexed  by  the  terrible 
possibilities  that  had  been  hinted  at  in  that 
unintelligible  letter,  and  she  had  tried  to  turn 
her  thoughts  away  from  so  painful  a  subject. 
In  vain.  The  circumstances  around  her  had 
not  allowed  her  to  do  so.  The  sick  man  him 
self  forced  them  upon  her;  and,  in  addition 
to  all  that  she  had  already  learned,  he  had 
uttered  words  most  terrible  even  to  hear  as 


delirious  ravings,  but  which,  if  true,  told 
things  that  could  not  be  endured. 

Let  us  see,  now,  what  the  circumstances 
were  that  immediately  followed  Mr.  Wyverne'a 
death. 

Inez  had  left  the  sick  man's  chamber  as 
the  priest  entered.  She  had  gone  at  once  to 
her  own  room.  She  had  flung  herself  upon 
her  couch,  with  her  face  buried  in  the  pillows, 
recalling  every  incident  in  that  terrible  scene 
which  she  had  just  witnessed.  That  her  hand 
should  be  joined  to  the  hand  of  Basil  Blake 
might,  under  different  circumstances,  have 
had  in  it  nothing  distasteful  to  her  feelings  • 
but,  at  this  time,  and  under  such  conditions, 
it  had  been  simply  frightful.  For  her  father 
had  struck  her  down  by  the  terrors  of  the 
revelation  that  he  had  made ;  he  had  installed 
another  in  her  place  next  his  heart,  and  it 
was  only  through  the  medium  of  this  sup- 
planter  and  usurper  of  her  place  that  he  re 
ceived  her  back  to  his  love. 

Her  father  had  said  that  she  was  not  his 
daughter.  This  was  the  one  thought  that 
now  stood  preeminent  in  her  mind.  And  was 
this  declaration  the  act  of  a  sane  man,  or  was 
it  the  raving  of  an  insane  man  ?  Dr.  Blake 
had  insisted,  over  and  over  again,  that  it  was 
delirium.  Did  Dr.  Blake  really  believe  so 
himself,  or  had  he  said  that  merely  to  console 
her  for  the  time  ? 

How  could  she  answer  such  questions  as 
these  ? 

In  the  midst  of  these  thoughts  she  sud 
denly  became  aware  of  a  certain  awful  hush — 
a  solemn  stillness  through  all  the  house.  It 
was  as  though  all  in  the  house  had  simultane 
ously  stopped  breathing. 

Something  had  happened. 

There  was  only  one  thing,  as  Inez  knew 
well,  which  could  account  for  this — the  one 
thing  toward  which  her  fearful  soul  had  been 
looking.  But  it  was  doubly  terrible  now.  It 
was  too  soon.  She  expected  to  see  him  again. 
Her  last  hope  would  be  that  he  might  take 
back  all  those  words.  What  if  he  had  left 
her  now  forever  ?  What  if  his  last  words  to 
her  should  be  nothing  more  than  those  appal 
ling  ones  which  she  had  just  heard. 

She  started  to  her  feet,  and  stood  with 
her  hands  clasped  together,  her  limbs  rigid, 
her  pallid  face  turned  to  the  door  in  awful  ex 
pectation,  her  eyes  staring  wildly,  her  ears 
strained  to  catch  the  slightest  sound.  The 
silence  continued  for  what  seemed  to  her  a 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


fearful  length  of  time.  At  last  there  were 
footsteps  in  the  hall.  She  wished  to  go  and 
make  inquiries,  and  put  an  end  to  her  sus 
pense;  but  she  could  not  move. 

Then  there  came  a  light  knock  at  the 
door.  Inez  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not. 
The  handle  was  turned.  The  door  opened 
slowly. 

It  was  her  maid  Saunders. 

The  maid's  face  was  quite  pale ;  she  held 
a  corner  of  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and  looked 
furtively  and  hesitatingly  at  her  mistress. 

"  Oh,  if  you  please,  miss,"  she  began,  and 
then  stopped. 

Inez  tried  to  speak,  and  again  was  unable 
to  utter  a  word. 

"  Miss  Mordaunt  thought  I'd  best  let  you 
know,  miss — immejitly,  if  you  please,  miss — 
and,  if  you  please,  miss,  he — it — your  poor 
papa — it's — it's  all  over,  miss." 

"  He's  dead ! "  moaned  Inez,  in  a  low, 
tremulous  voice ;  and  then,  turning  away,  she 
flung  herself  again  upon  her  couch. 

Saunders  stood  looking  at  her  for  some 
time,  as  though  waiting  for  orders.  But  no 
orders  came  from  her  mistress.  She  satisfied 
herself  that  she  had  not  fainted,  and  then 
quietly  left  the  room.  Outside,  Miss  Mordaunt 
was  waiting,  who  came  in  and  looked  at  Inez 
for  a  moment.  She  saw,  however,  that  noth 
ing  could  be  done,  and  therefore  very  natural 
ly  concluded  that  for  the  present  the  be 
reaved  daughter  ought  to  be  left  to  herself. 

Inez  now  remained  motionless  for  several 
hours.  All  the  while  her  mind  was  filled 
with  the  remembrance  of  those  words  which 
formed  so  strange  a  legacy  from  a  dying  fa 
ther  to  a  daughter,  and  with  the  unparalleled 
thoughts  to  which  those  words  gave  rise.  It 
was  easy  to  recall  them  all.  Over  and  over 
again  she  reiterated  them :  "I have  no  daugh 
ter!  You  are  not  mine!  You  are  Ms!  He  is 
coming  for  you  and  for  vengeance!"  Together 
with  these  words  she  recalled  his  words  to 
Blake.  It  was  Blake  who  had  kissed  him. 
It  was  Blake  to  whom  he  had  shown  a  father's 
love.  It  was  also  Blake,  no  doubt,  who  had 
closed  his  eyes  when  all  was  over. 

It  was  about  an  hour  before  sundown 
when  Inez  at  length  roused  herself.  She 
rose,  arranged  her  dress,  and  called  her  maid. 
Saunders  came  in,  as  before,  cautiousl}r,  and 
watching  her  mistress  furtively. 

"  I  wish  to  see  him,"  said  Inez.  "  Go  and 
ask  if  I  may  see  him  now." 


She  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  but  without  any 
tremor  that  could  be  detected. 

"  Oh,  yes,  miss,"  said  Saunders,  "  you  may. 
They  told  me  to  tell  you  more'n  an  hour  ago." 

Inez  said  no  more,  but  left  the  room,  fol 
lowed  by  Saunders,  and  went  to  the  apart 
ment  around  which  so  many  griefs  were  al 
ready  gathered.  She  opened  the  door.  The 
curtains  were  drawn. 

"Wait  here  for  me,"  said  she  to  Saunders, 
and  then,  entering,  she  closed  the  door  behind 
her. 

The  room  was  too  dark  to  see  any  thing, 
and  Inez  drew  one  of  the  curtains  aside  and 
thus  let  in  a  dim  light.  Then  she  turned 
toward  the  bed,  whereon  she  saw  the  outline 
of  the  figure  stretched  out  there.  For  a  mo 
ment  she  hesitated,  and  then  advanced  till 
she  reached  the  head  of  the  bed,  where  she 
stood  for  a  few  moments  in  thought.  At 
length,  with  a  steady  hand,  she  drew  down 
the  covering  from  off  the  face  of  the  dead. 

There  it  lay,  all  that  was  mortal  of  the 
man  whom  she  had  called  father,  but  who  had 
disowned  her  with  his  last,  dying  words,  and 
who,  before  her  very  eyes,  as  she  sat  crushed 
and  stricken  before  him,  had  installed  another 
in  her  place,  and  driven  her  from  his  heart. 
Against  such  treatment  her  soul  rebelled ;  the 
dark  doubt  that  he  had  cast  into  her  mind  as 
to  whether  he  was  her  father  prevented  her 
now  from  mourning  over  the  dead  with  a 
daughter's  grief;  and,  even  as  she  looked  at 
the  face  of  the  dead,  her  chief  and  uppermost 
thoughts  were  about  the  impenetrable  mystery 
that  now  surrounded  her. 

That  thin,  withered  face,  cold  in  death, 
with  its  sunken  cheeks,  and  projecting  cheek 
bones,  and  hollow  orbits,  where  the  closed 
eyes  lay  sunken,  bore  no  resemblance  to  the 
one  who  in  life  had  been  known  as  Hennigar 
Wyvcrne.  The  lips  were  drawn  back,  and 
the  teeth  were  disclosed,  so  that  there  was 
formed  something  like  a  grisly  smile.  It 
seemed  to  Inez  that  this  man  was  yet  mock 
ing  her  even  in  death,  and  that  this  ghastly 
smile  had  been  called  up  by  her  approach. 
The  thought  was  too  horrible.  She  drew 
back  the  covering,  and  turned  away. 

She  turned  away  and  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  apartment  with  her  face  averted  from 
the  dead.  Of  the  manner  of  his  death  she 
had  as  yet  heard  nothing.  Whether  he  had 
said  any  thing  more  or  not — whether  he  had 
retracted  or  confirmed  his  declaration  about 


THE   GOLD   CRUCIFIX. 


her,  she  could  not  know,  and  this  she  was 
eager  to  learn.  This  she  could  find  out  only 
from  Dr.  Blake.  To  send  for  him  was,  how 
ever,  so  repugnant  to  her  delicacy  that  she 
hesitated  for  some  time;  but  finally,  seeing 
that  there  was  no  alternative,  she  went  to  the 
door  and  told  the  maid  to  ask  him  to  come. 

In  a  few  moments  Blake  entered.  He 
bowed  to  her  in  silence.  He  did  not  attempt 
to  console  her,  or  to  condole  with  her.  There 
were  reasons  which  made  any  such  things  im 
possible,  for,  while  the  astonishing  words  of 
the  deceased  had  disturbed  Inez  as  we  have 
seen,  they  had  produced  in  the  mind  of  Blake 
an  effect  in  every  respect  as  perplexing,  as 
confusing,  and  as  agitating.  Those  dying 
words  lived  in  his  memory  as  in  hers,  but  she 
was  the  last  one  in  all  the  world  with  whom 
he  would  care  to  discuss  them. 

Inez  was  seated  near  the  window,  and 
Blake  took  a  seat  not  far  away.  The  silence 
lasted  for  some  time.  Inez  had  much  to  ask, 
but  knew  not  how  to  begin. 

"Dr.  Blake,"  said  she,  at  length,  in  alow, 
mournful  voice,  "  it  was  very  unfortunate  that 
I  left — him — so  soon — but  I  thought  that  he 
would  be  spared  to  us  a  little  longer.  Was 
there  not  time,  after  his  confession,  to  call 
me?" 

"  There  was  not,"  said  Blake,  slowly — and 
then  after  a  pause  he  added,  "  There  was  no 
confession." 

"  No  confession  !  "  exclaimed  Inez. 
The  doctor  shook  his  head. 
"  He  was  not  able  to  speak  when  the  priest 
came  to  him.     Before  you  had  been  gone  ten 
minutes — all  was  over." 

Inez  looked  at  him  earnestly. 
"  He  said  nothing,  then  ?  " 
"Nothing,"  said  Blake. 
For  this  intelligence  Inez  was  not  quite 
prepared,  for  she  had  hitherto  supposed  that 
a  confession  had  been  made  to  the  priest — in 
which  case  she  hoped  that  some  result  might 
come  of  it.     But  he  had  died  and  made  no 
sign,  and  this  it  was  that  now  seemed  most 
bitter.     And  now  what  next  was  there  to  in 
quire — what  more  should   she  ask  of  him  ? 
That  next  question  trembled  on  her  lips,  yet 
she  feared  to  ask  it.     The  question  would  be 
a  final  one — a  decisive  one.     It  would  change 
her  whole  future  life— it  would  affect  it  mate 
rially  for  weal  or  woe.     It  would  put  an  end 
to  her  suspense  on  one  point,  and  confirm  one 
dark  suspicion  or  remove  it. 
3 


"  Dr.  Blake,"  said  she,  at  length,  after  a 
long  delay,  fixing  her  sad  eyes  earnestly  upon 
him,  with  a  look  that  showed  him  that  no 
evasion  would  be  tolerated  now ;  and  speak 
ing  in  a  voice  whose  mournful  intonations 
found  an  echo  in  the  depths  of  his  soul — "Dr. 
Blake — you  know  what  his  dying  words — his 
last  words  to  me  were — and  his  last  acts — 
you  know  also  what  those  dying  words  and 
acts  were  to  you.  You  must  understand  the 
whole  force  of  their  appalling  meaning — and 
you  must  see  that  even  the  death  of  one  whom 
I  have  loved  as  a  father,  cannot  be  more  ter 
rible  than  that  revelation  which  he  seemed 
to  make.  While  he  was  speaking  you  told 
me  that  it  was  only  delirium.  I  ask  you  now 
in  the  name  of  that  God  who  sees  us  both — 
did  you  speak  the  truth  ?  Will  you  now  say 
to  me  that  it  was  delirium." 

She  stopped,  and  her  eyes,  which  had 
never  withdrawn  themselves  from  his,  seemed 
now  to  rest  on  him  with  a  more  imperative 
earnestness,  as  though  they  would  extort  the 
truth  from  him.  His  own  eyes  fell,  and  a 
feeling  of  something  like  dismay  took  posses 
sion  of  him,  as  he  thought  of  the  answer 
which  she  was  forcing  from  him. 

"  You  will  not  answer  me,"   said  Inez, 
mournfully,  after  a  long  pause. 
Blake  drew  a  long  breath. 
"  It  is  not  always  possible  to  say  exactly," 
said  he,  in  a  hesitating  manner,   "  how  much 
of  delirium  enters  into  the  fancies  of  a  sick 
man.     He  was  feverish — he  had  been  taking 
powerful  drugs — at  that  time  his  mind  may 
have  gone  altogether  astray.    It  is  hardly  pos 
sible  to  answer  your  question  positively." 

"  Have  you  thought  of  those  words 
since  ?  " 

"I  have,  and  I  assure  you  most  solemnly 
that  I  cannot  attach  any  intelligible  meaning 
to  them." 

"  In  my  case,"  said  Inez,  thinking  of  the 
letter,  "  circumstances  have  occurred  which 
give  a  strange  and  painful  significance  to 
those  words,  though  I  cannot  understand  how 
they  can  be  true." 

Blake  said  nothing.  He,  too,  had  his  own 
reasons  for  attaching  a  painful  significance 
to  those  words.  But  he  did  not  wish  to  say 
one  word  which  might  increase  the  trouble  of 
Inez.  He  wished,  if  possible,  to  say  that 
which  might  remove  her  suspicions,  yet  this 
very  thing  he  knew  not  how  to  say. 

"  One  more  question,"  said  Inez.     "  Do 


30 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


you  now  believe,  in  your  own  heart,  Dr.  Blake 
that  those  words  were  the  language  of  deliri 
um?" 

Blake's  heart  beat  fast.  He  looked  a1 
Inez,  and  then  looked  away.  He  knew  no! 
how  to  answer  this  direct  question.  He 
would  have  been  willing  to  evade,  or  even  to 
indulge  in  a  little  mild  deceit  for  her  sake 
but  with  those  clear,  sad,  earnest  eyes  fast 
ened  upon  him,  no  deceit,  however  slight,  was 
possible. 

"  You  do  not  answer,"  said  Inez.  "  Your 
silence  can  have  only  one  meaning.  Will  you 
say  that  you  believe  those  words  were  deli 
rium  ?  " 

Blake  looked  at  her  with  a  face  full  ol 
mournful  deprecation.  It  seemed  to  him  at 
that  moment  that  his  inability  to  give  the  an 
swer  which  she  wished,  was  placing  between 
them  an  eternal  barrier,  yet  that  answer  was 
one  which  he  could  not  give.  In  his  secret 
soul  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  the  words  of 
the  dying  man  were  sane  and  rational. 

Silence  now  followed,  and  Blake,  after 
waiting  some  minutes,  and  finding  that  Inez 
had  nothing  further  to  say,  rose  and  took  his 
departure,  leaving  her  alone  with  the  dead. 

And  now  an  incident  occurred  which 
seemed  to  complicate  still  more  the  extraor 
dinary  net-work  of  bewildering  circumstances 
that  was  interweaving  itself  about  Inez. 

She  was  sitting  by  the  window.  Her  back 
was  turned  toward  the  bed.  In  order  to  put 
herself  in  that  position,  she  had  moved  the 
chair  a  short  distance  from  the  place  where  it 
had  been  standing.  It  was  a  heavy  stuffed 
chair,  without  casters,  and  to  move  it  required 
some  effort.  As  she  sat  here,  her  feet  rested 
on  the  very  place  where  the  chair  had  origi 
nally  stood. 

As  Blake  retired,  she  leaned  her  head  for 
ward,  and,  feeling  weary,  she  looked  for  some 
support  to  it.  The  window-ledge  was  at  the 
right  height  to  give  this  support.  Upon  this 
window-ledge  she  placed  her  right  hand,  and 
then  turned  herself  slightly,  so  as  to  rest  her 
forehead  on  this  hand.  As  she  made  this 
movement,  her  foot  struck  something  that  lay 
upon  the  floor,  and  a  slight  clinking  sound 
arose.  Thinking  that  it  might  be  some  orna 
ment  which  had  fallen,  she  stooped  to  pick  it 
up. 

On  lifting  it  up,  she  found,  however,  that 
it  was  no  ornament,  but  something  of  a  far 
different  kind. 


It  was  a  crucifix,  to  which  was  attached  a 
small  fragment  of  chain.  Raising  it  close  to 
the  light,  the  very  first  glance  filled  her  with 
astonishment. 

The  crucifix  was  about  three  inches  long. 
It  was  of  solid  gold,  and  of  the  most  exquisite 
workmanship.  The  broken  chain  was  also 
of  gold,  and  it  seemed  to  have  been  snapped 
asunder  unknown  to  the  wearer,  who  had 
gone  away,  leaving  it  here  behind  him. 

But  who  was  the  owner  ? 

Not  Mr.  Wyverne.  -He  had  nothing  of  the 
kind,  nor  was  he  a  man  who  would  have  car 
ried  such 'an  article  on  his  travels. 

It  seemed  to  Inez  most  probable  that  this 
golden  crucifix  belonged  to  the  priest.  This 
priest  had  come,  but  his  office  was  not  per 
formed.  There  may  have  been  some  agitation 
in  his  mind  at  so  sudden  a  call,  followed  by 
so  sudden  a  death ;  and,  as  his  thoughts  were 
occupied  with  this  unusual  event,  he  may  not 
have  noticed  the  loss  of  the  crucifix.  The 
chain  may  have  broken  by  catching  on  some 
projection,  such  as  the  arm  of  the  chair.  It 
had  fallen  to  the  floor,  and  perhaps  under  the 
chair,  where  it  had  lain  unnoticed  until  she 
had  moved  the  chair  from  its  usual  place. 

In  this  way  Inez  accounted  for  the  extraor 
dinary  presence  of  the  golden  crucifix  in  this 
chamber.  But,  while  she  was  thus  thinking, 
she  was  gazing  intently  upon  the  elaborate 
work,  and  the  exquisite  design  of  the  crucifix 
itself;  and,  finally,  having  studied  one  side, 
she  turned  it  over  with  the  idea  that  the  name 
of  the  owner  might  possibly  be  engraved  on 
the  reverse,  or  something  else  which  might 
give  a  clew  to  its  ownership.  The  moment 
that  she  turned  it  over,  her  attention  was  ar- 
•ested  by  some  letters.  Looking  at  them 
closely,  she  read  the  following. 

At  the  intersection  of  the  arms  of  the 
cross  were  these  letters : 

B.  M. 

In  Memoriam. 
I.  M. 

On  the  lower  part  of  the  cross,  and  running 
down  its  length,  were  these  words : 

Pie  Jesu  Domine, 

Dona  ei  requiem.    Amen. 

As  Inez  looked  at  these  letters,  she  felt 
utterly  confounded,  and  could  scarce  believe 
er  own  eyes.     Yet  there  were  those  letters 
unmistakably,  the  initials  which  for  a  week 
and   more  had  filled  all   her  thoughts ;   the 


THE   GOLD   CRUCIFIX. 


31 


mysterious  letters,  B.  M.,  which  all  that  time 
had  been  present  in  her  thoughts  by  day  and 
night.  What  did  this  mean  ?  How  came  the 
crucifix  here — this  crucifix,  marked  with  such 
signs  as  these? 

That  it  did  not  and  could  not  belong  to 
Mr.  Wyverne  she  felt  confident,  as  has  been 
said.  She  knew  that  he  had  brought  no  such 
article  with  him.  He  was  indifferent  to  all 
religious  matters  ;  and,  besides,  she  had  been 
his  nurse  for  a  week,  during  which  time  that 
very  chair  had  been  frequently  moved.  She 
reverted  then  more  confidently  than  ever  to 
her  former  conclusion,  that  it  belonged  to  the 
priest ;  and  then  at  once  arose  the  question, 
How  came  this  priest  by  any  such  thing  as 
this  ?  One  wild  thought  instantly  arose  that 
the  priest  himself  was  B.  M.  The  letter  had 
stated  that  he  was  in  Rome,  on  his  way  to 
England.  Might  not  this  priest  have  been 
the  very  man  ?  And,  if  so,  what  then  ?  What 
had  happened  at  that  interview?  Had  they 
spoken  together,  or  had  Mr.  Wyverne  avoided 
his  dreaded  enemy  in  a  more  efficacious  man 
ner  than  that  which  the  letter  had  suggested, 
and  fled  from  him,  not  by  a  pretended  death, 
but  by  one  that  was  real  ?  Could  the  priest 
be  B.  M.  ?  If  so,  she  might  see  him,  and  solve 
all  the  mystery. 

With  this  thought,  she  called  in  her  maid. 

"Is  the  priest  here,  Saunders?"  asked 
Inez. 

"  Oh,  no,  miss  ;  he  left  long  ago." 

"  Long  ago  ?     How  long  ago  ?  " 

"Not  very  long,  miss,  after — after  poor 
master's — after  he  was  took,"  said  Saunders, 
hesitating  in  the  effort  to  find  some  suitable 
way  of  mentioning  the  dread  subject  of  death. 

This  intelligence  was  to  Inez  a  sad  disap 
pointment. 

"  Do  you  know  where  he  went  ?  " 

"  No,  miss." 

"  Do  you  know  his  name  ?  " 

"  No,  miss ;  but,  if  you  please,  rniss,  I'll 
go  for  John  Thomas.  I  think  he  knows, 
miss." 

"  Send  him  to  my  room,"  said  Inez.  "  I'm 
going  there."  Saying  this,  Inez  rose,  wearily, 
and  returned  to  her  own  apartment. 

In  a  few  minutes  John  Thomas  made  his 
appearance.  He  was  a  tall  footman,  with 
heavy  face  and  irreproachable  calves.  He 
bowed,  and  said : 

"  I  beg  parding,  miss ;  but  wos  you  a 
wantin'  me  ?  " 


After  which  he  stood  with  the  corners  of 
his  mouth  drawn  down,  and  a  lugubrious 
aspect  on  his  face,  which  was  maintained  by 
an  occasional  snuffle. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  about  that  priest," 
said  Inez.  "  Do  you  know  his  name  ?  " 

"Me,  miss?     No,  miss;  and,  wot's  more, 
there's  nobody  about  'ere  as  knows  it.    I  allus 
likes  to  know  wot's  goin'  on,  miss ;  but  this 
'ere  priest  got  ahead  of  me." 
"  Didn't  he  give  any  name  ?  " 
"  Name,  miss  ?    No,  miss.     He  came  late 
last  night,  and  left  early  this  mornin',  not  long 
after  the — the  late  mournful    bereavemink, 
miss." 

At  this,  Inez  felt  utterly  disheartened. 
"  Nobody   knows   hany   think   about   Mm 
more'n  me ;  an'  wot  I  knows  hain't  no  more'n 
the  letters  of  'is  name,  which  I  see  'em  on  'is 
valise,  as  'e  walked  out  of  the  hinn." 

"Letters  of  his  name!"  exclaimed  Inez, 
catching  at  these  words.  "  What  letters  did 
you  see  ?  " 

"  Why,  miss,  I  felt  hinquisitive  about  'im, 
and,  has  I  couldn't  find  hout  'is  name,  I 
watched  'is  valise.  It  'ad  two  letters  on  it, 
painted  quite  big — " 

"Two  letters!"  said  Inez,  breathlessly. 
"What  were  they?" 

"The  letters,"  said  John  Thomas,  "wos 
B.  M." 

At  this  confirmation  of  her  theory,  Inez 
was  too  much  overcome  to  make  any  re 
joinder,  but  sat  in  silence  and  perplexity  for 
some  time.  At  last  she  looked  up. 

"What  did  he  look  like?"  she  asked, 
abruptly. 

"The  priest,  miss? — mejium   size,  miss; 
dark    complected ;    heyes    black,  and  'eavy 
heyebrows ;    'is   'air,  too,  miss,  wos   a   hir'n 
ray.     He  lookari  more  like  a  Hitaliau  than 
a  Henglishman,  miss." 

To  Inez  this  information  gave  no  assist 
ance;  but  she  noted  in  her  mind  the  chief 
points  in  this  description,  in  case  of  future 
need. 

She  saw  Dr.  Blake  once  more  that  same 
evening,  and  received  from  him  a  still  more 
minute  description  of  the  personal  appearance 
of  the  priest  "  B.  M." 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    EBONY    CASKET,    AND    ITS     STRANGE     CON 
TENTS. 

THE  remains  of  Henuigar  Wyverne  were 
sent  home  for  burial. 

Inez  and  Bessie,  with  their  servants,  left 
for  home  immediately. 

Dr.  Blake  accompanied  them  as  far  as 
Boulogne.  He  had  no  encouragement  what 
ever  to  do  this.  Inez  was  preoccupied,  and 
so  buried  in  the  depths  of  her  own  gloomy 
thoughts  that  she  seemed  to  be  unconscious 
of  his  presence.  At  Boulogne,  therefore,  he 
bade  her  farewell,  and  stood  upon  the  pier, 
gazing  with  mournful  eyes  upon  the  steamer 
that  bore  Inez  away  from  him,  until  it  was 
out  of  sight. 

Inez  had  not  chosen — for  reasons  already 
mentioned — to  make  a  confidante  of  Bessie. 
It  is  to  be  supposed,  therefore,  that  this  young 
lady  had  no  idea  of  the  peculiar  troubles  of 
her  friend,  but  attributed  them,  as  was  natu 
ral,  to  the  pain  of  bereavement.  She  showed 
the  utmost  delicacy  in  her  behavior  toward 
Inez,  and  never  sought  to  utter  any  of  those 
condolences  which  are  so  useless  to  assuage 
the  true  grief  of  the  heart.  She  refrained 
also  from  intruding  upon  the  solitude  of  Inez 
when  she  showed  that  she  wished  to  be  alone, 
and  merely  evinced  her  affection  by  sundry 
little  attentions  which  were  directed  toward 
the  bodily  comfort  of  her  friend.  Whatever 
Bessie's  own  thoughts  or  feelings  were,  they 
never  appeared ;  nor  was  it  certain  at  all 
whether  she  felt  wounded  or  slighted  by  the 
reserve  of  one  from  whom  she  might  perhaps 
have  claimed  greater  confidence.  But  Inez 
was  naturally  of  a  reserved  temper,  and,  even 
if  she  had  been  the  most  communicative  soul 
in  the  world,  the  secret  that  she  now  had  was 
one  which  few  would  care  to  communicate. 

In  that  great  craving  and  longing  to  ex 
press  her  secret  griefs  which  Inez  felt,  as 
most  people  feel,  at  this  time,  she  had  re 
course  to  a  simple  plan,  which  was  not  with 
out  its  advantages.  She  wrote  down  the  chief 
facts  of  her  mysterious  case  in  her  private 
memorandum-book,  and  over  these  words  her 
eyes  used  often  to  wander,  not  merely  in  the 
solitude  of  her  own  room,  but  even  in  the 
greater  publicity  of  rail-cars  and  steamboats. 
What  Inez  wrote  down  was  as  follows : 


1.  For  some  unknown  cause,  H.    W.  and 
B.  M.  were  mortal  enemies. 

2.  It  seems  as  if  H.  W.  was  the  offender, 
and  B.  H.  the  injured  one. 

3.  for  this  reason,  perhaps,  If.  W.  stood  in 
mortal  terror  of  B.  M. 

4.  A  third  party  in  this  case  is  one  Kevin 
Magrath. 

5.  I  have  been  brought  up  as  the  daughter 
of  H.  W. 

6.  H.  TF],  on  his  death-led,  and  with  his 
last  words,  lias  solemnly  said  that  I  am  not  his 
daughter, 

7.  //.  W.  has  said,  on  his  death-bed,  that  2 
am  the  daughter  of  his  mortal  enemy,  B.  M. 

8.  H.  W.  has  said,  on  his  death-bed,  that 
Basil  Blake  is  his  son. 

9.  B.  H.  is  a  Roman  Catholic  priest. 

10.  How  can  I  be  the  daughter  of  a  R.  <?. 
priest? 

11.  B.  31.  was  present  at  the  death-bed  of 
H.  W.,  and  saw  him  die. 

12.  If  he  in  my  father,  why  did  he  not 
seek  for  me  ?    Answer — Because  he  may  have 
been  told  that  I  am  dead. 

13.  B.  M.  dropped  his  crucifix.     I  found  it. 
By  constantly  brooding  over  these  things, 

which  she  had  thus  summed  up  that  they 
might  be  always  present  to  her  eyes,  Inez 
found  herself  sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into 
an  abyss  of  bewilderment  from  which  no  out 
let  appeared.  The  great  question  was,  What 
shall  I  do?  and  this  she  could  not  answer. 
Her  own  helplessness  was  utter.  Her  posi 
tion  was  most  false  and  intolerable.  The 
name  by  which  she  was  known  was  not  hers. 
Her  parentage  was  thrown  in  doubt,  and  that 
doubt  indicated  something  intolerable  to  a 
mind  like  hers.  Out  of  all  this  confusion  and 
misery  she  had  one  definite  purpose  only,  and 
that  was,  to  carry  on  the  search  as  soon  as 
she  reached  home,  and  take  the  first  oppor 
tunity  that  presented  itself  of  investigating 
the  papers  of  Hennigar  Wyverne. 

To  one  who  was  so  eager  as  she  was,  the 
first  opportunity  would  inevitably  be  seized. 
Scarce  had  Inez  set  foot  within  her  house,  than 
she  began  a  search  among  those  effects  of  the 
deceased  which  had  been  sent  home  already. 
Here  she  found  nothing ;  but  a  greater  search 
was  before  her — one,  too,  which  she  had  held 
in  view  all  along,  and  for  which  she  had  pre 
pared  herself  before  leaving  Villeneuve.  This 
was  the  investigation  of  the  cabinet  of  Hen- 
nigar  Wyverne,  where  she  supposed  he  would 


THE  EBONY  CASKET,  AND  ITS  STRANGE  CONTENTS. 


33 


have  been  most  likely  to  keep  any  thing  re 
lating  to  the  great  mystery,  if,  indeed,  any 
thing  at  all  had  been  kept.  At  Villeneuve 
she  had  thought  of  this,  and  had  prepared 
for  it  by  obtaining  then,  before  the  effects  of 
the  deceased  were  packed  up,  the  keys  of  that 
very  cabinet.  These  he  had  carried  with 
him,  and  she  found  them  in  his  travelling- 
desk. 

Inez  had  no  difficulties  thrown  in  her  way. 
Bessie  showed  no  inclination  to  interfere 
with  any  of  her  movements.  She  still  main- 
tained  the  same  delicate  consideration  which 
has  already  been  mentioned.  She  seemed 
rather  to  wait  for  Inez  to  make  the  first  ad 
vances  toward  their  old  confidence,  and  ven 
tured  upon  nothing  more  than  the  usual  kiss 
at  meeting  in  the  morning  and  parting  at 
night,  and  an  occasional  caress  when  the 
mood  of  Inez  seemed  to  allow  it.  Bessie  had 
also  cultivated  a  pathetic  expression  of  face, 
which  was  quite  in  accordance  with  her  style 
of  beauty,  and  made  her  look  so  very  interest 
ing  that  Inez  once  or  twice  felt  inclined  to 
break  her  resolution  and  confide  all  to  her 
friend.  This,  however,  was  but  a  momentary 
impulse,  which  a  second  thought  never  failed 
to  destroy. 

The  city  residence  of  the  late  Hennigar 
Wyverne,  Esq.,  was  a  large  and  handsome 
edifice  in  a  fashionable  quarter  of  London. 
Opposite  the  morning-room  was  an  apartment 
which  was  called  the  library,  but  which  had 
been  used  by  the  deceased  as  a  kind  of  office. 
Books  were  around  on  three  sides,  while  on 
the  fourth  were  two  articles  of  furniture  de 
voted  rather  to  business  than  to  literature  or 
learning.  One  of  these  was  a  closet,  filled 
with  papers  all  neatly  labelled  and  lying  in 
pigeon-holes.  The  other  was  a  massive  cabi 
net,  which  contained  the  more  important  books 
and  papers.  It  was  this  last  which  Inez  wished 
more  particularly  to  search. 

To  carry  on  such  a  search  would  require 
time,  and  it  would  be  necessary  to  be  free 
from  observation.  These  conditions  could 
not  be  obtained  by  day,  and  night  must  be 
the  time.  Among  the  hours  of  the  night  it 
would  be  necessary  to  choose  those  when  the 
household  would  be  certain  to  be  asleep. 
Those  hours  would  be,  at  least,  not  earlier 
than  two  in  the  morning.  At  that  time  she 
might  hope  to  be  unnoticed,  unsuspected,  and 
undisturbed.  This  was  the  time,  then,  that 
Inez  decided  upon,  and  she  resolved  to  carry 


her  great  purpose  into  execution  on  the  sec 
ond  night  after  her  arrival. 

In  spite  of  the  great  necessity  which  she 
felt  pressing  her  on  to  this  task,  it  was  one 
from  which  Inez  recoiled  instinctively.  It 
seemed  to  be  a  dishonorable  thing.  But  this 
notion  was  one  which  she  reasoned  herself 
out  of;  and  by  pleading  the  dictates  of  duty 
she  silenced  what  was  perhaps,  after  all,  noth 
ing  more  than  false  sensitiveness. 

It  was  not  so  easy,  however,  to  overcome 
that  weakness  of  nerve  and  natural  timidity 
which  were  caused  by  the  nature  of  her  under 
taking.  Setting  out  thus  on  this  midnight 
errand,  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  she  were 
about  to  commit  some  sin  ;  and  it  was  some 
time,  even  after  the  hour  had  arrived,  before 
she  felt  strong  enough  to  venture  down.  At 
length  she  rallied  her  sinking  strength,  and 
stealthily  left  her  room.  Pausing  there,  she 
stood  listening.  All  was  still.  She  carried  a 
wax-candle,  but  it  was  not  lighted.  She  had 
some  matches,  and  could  light  the  candle 
when  she  reached  the  library. 

Softly  and  stealthily  she  descended.  There 
was  no  interruption  of  any  kind  whatever. 
She  reached  the  library  and  entered,  after 
which  she  shut  the  door  as  softly  as  possible, 
and  locked  it  on  the  inside.  She  then  took 
her  handkerchief  and  stuffed  it  into  the  key 
hole.  After  this  she  examined  the  windows, 
and  found  that  the  blinds  were  closed.  No 
light  could  now  betray  her  presence  here,  and 
so  she  lighted  her  candle  and  looked  around 
her. 

The  dim  light  of  the  single  flickering  can 
dle  but  feebly  illuminated  the  large  and  lofty 
room.  In  the  distance  the  walls  and  shelves 
stood  enveloped  in  gloomy  shadows.  But 
Inez  had  eyes  only  for  that  cabinet  which  she 
had  come  to  explore.  It  was  immediately  in 
front  of  her,  and  she  held  the  keys  in  her 
band. 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated.  It  seemed 
to  her  now  that  the  moment  had  come — the 
supreme  moment  when  the  secret  would  be 
all  revealed.  Yet  about  that  revelation  what 
horrors  might  not  hang !  Already  one  revela 
tion  had  taken  place,  and  it  had  been  bitter 
ndeed.  Would  this  be  less  so  ?  It  seemed 
to  her  as  though  about  the  secret  of  her  par 
entage  there  lurked  endless  possibilities  of 
crime,  and  shame,  and  dishonor. 

But  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  Suddenly 
mastering  her  feelings,  she  put  the  key  in  the 


34 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


lock.     The  bolt  turned  back.      She  opened 
the  door. 

Before  her  lay  the  ordinary  contents  of  a 
cabinet.  There  were  account-books  standing 
upright,  and  papers  filed  away  and  labelled, 
so  numerous  that  the  sight  discouraged  Inez. 
It  would  take  many  days  to  look  over  them 
all.  But  they  were  all'  labelled  so  carefully 
that  it  seemed  possible  for  her  to  get  a  gen 
eral  idea  of  most  of  them  after  all.  She  knelt 
down  in  front  of  the  cabinet,  and,  drawing  up 
a  chair,  she  put  the  candle  upon  it.  Then 
she  began  to  look  over  the  papers,  beginning 
at  the  right-hand  corner. 

This  task  soon  became  very  wearisome. 
Bundle  after  bundle  of  papers  revealed  no 
name  that  had  any  connection  with  those  ini 
tials  whose  meaning  she  was  so  eager  to  dis 
cover.  Some  were  receipts,  others  letters, 
others  documents  of  a  business  nature.  At 
length  she  paused,  and  her  eyes  wandered  de 
spondently  over  the  whole  assemblage  of  pa 
pers,  to  see  if  there  Avas  any  thing  there 
which  seemed  by  its  position  or  appearance 
to  indicate  any  thing  peculiar,  any  thing  dif 
ferent  from  the  monotony  of  the  others. 

In  the  very  middle  of  the  cabinet  there  was 
a  square  drawer  about  a  foot  in  width  and 
depth,  and  this  seemed  to  Inez  to  be  a  place 
where  more  important  or  more  private  docu 
ments  might  be  kept.  It  seemed  best  to  open 
this  at  once.  She  had  the  whole  bunch  of  keys 
with  her,  which  she  had  obtained  possession  of 
at  Villeneuve,  and  felt  sure  that  the  key  to  this 
drawer  would  be  among  them.  One  by  one 
she  tried  the  keys  that  were  on  the  bunch, 
and  at  last  found  one,  as  she  had  hoped,  which 
would  fit.  She  unlocked  the  drawer  and 
opened  it. 

One  look  inside  showed  her  that  at  length 
she  had  found  one  thing  at  least  which  she 
Desired — something  different  from  the  general 
assemblage  of  receipts,  letters,  and  business 
document?. 

k  casket  lay  there  before  her,  inside  the 
drawer.  It  was  quite  small,  not  more  than 
six  inches  in  length,  and  was  made  of  ebony, 
with  silver  corners  and  edges,  together  with 
silver  feet,  and  a  handle  of  the  same  metal. 
At  the  sight  of  this,  she  felt  an  uncontrollable 
impatience  to  get  at  the  secret  of  its  contents, 
and  snatched  it  with  eager  hands  out  of  the 
drawer.  Some  letters  on  the  silver  plate  of 
the  casket,  immediately  underneath  the  han 
dle,  attracted  her  attention.  She  held  it  close 


to  the  light.  The  silver  here  was  somewhat 
tarnished,  and  the  letters  were  of  an  antique 
Gothic  character,  such  as  are  used  for  inscrip 
tions  over  the  doors  of  cathedrals,  and  at  first 
were  not  quite  intelligible.  But  Inez  rubbed 
at  the  silver  with  her  sleeve  till  the  plate 
grew  bright,  and  then  once  more  held  it  to 
the  candle. 

The  letters  were  now  fully  revealed.     Her 
heart  throbbed  wildly  at  the  sight.     The  let 
ters  before  her  eyes  were  those  same  ones 
which  so  haunted  her — 
B.  M. 

And,  now,  what  should  she  do  ?  Stay 
here  and  examine  the  casket  1  No.  She  was 
liable  to  discovery.  She  had  been  here  long 
enough.  Better,  far,  to  take  the  little  casket 
away  and  examine  its  contents  in  her  own 
room,  at  her  leisure,  without  the  terror  of  pos 
sible  discovery  impending  over  her  constantly, 
and  constantly  distracting  her  thoughts.  In 
that  casket  she  felt  must  lie  all  that  she  could 
hope  to  find,  whatever  it  might  be ;  and,  if 
this  were  empty,  or  if  its  contents  revealed 
nothing,  then  she  would  have  to  remain  in  her 
ignorance.  If  the  casket  held  any  thing,  she 
might  keep  it ;  if  not,  she  might  return  it  at 
some  future  time;  but,  meanwhile,  it  was 
best  for  her  to  take  it  away. 

So  she  now  closed  the  drawer,  locked  it, 
then  shut  up  and  locked  the  cabinet;  after 
which  she  rose  to  her  feet,  and,  hiding  the 
casket  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  she  took  the 
candle  and  prepared  to  leave  the  room. 

Before  unlocking  the  library -door  she 
stood  and  listened.  As  she  stood,  she  thought 
she  heard  a  low,  breathing  sound  close  by 
her.  Starting,  in  terror,  she  looked  hastily 
around.  But  the  room  was  all  in  gloom,  and 
all  empty  and  deserted.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  it  was  merely  her  fancy.  But  once  more, 
as  she  waited  listening,  she  heard  it  even 
more  plainly.  This  time  it  seemed  like  a 
suppressed  cough.  It  was  on  the  other  side 
of  the  door. 

In  an  instant  it  flashed  upon  her  that  she 
had  been  watched  and  followed,  and  that 
some  one  was  now  outside  trying  to  peep 
through  the  keyhole.  But  who  ?  Could  it  be 
some  burglar,  or  could  it  possibly  be  one  of 
the  servants  ? 

She  waited  still,  and  listened.  But  there 
was  no  further  sound.  The  cough  had  been 
suppressed,  and,  if  there  was  any  one  watch 
ing?  ne  Save  no  s^Sn  now-  There  was  some- 


THE  EBONY  CASKET,  AND  ITS  STRANGE  CONTENTS. 


35 


thing  fearful,  to  this  defenceless  young  girl, 
in  the  thought  that  on  the  other  side  of  the 
door  might  be  some  lurking  enemy,  and  that 
the  moment  she  opened  it  he  might  spring  upon 
her;  and,  for  a  long  time,  she  stood  in  fear, 
unable  to  open  it.  But  beneath  this  fear  there 
was  another  fear  of  too  long  a  delay — the  fear 
of  being  discovered  in  this  place — of  being 
compelled  to  give  up  her  casket  before  she 
had  examined  its  contents ;  and  this  roused 
her  to  a  sudden  pitch  of  resolution. 

She  removed  her  handkerchief  from  the 
key-hole,  and  inserted  the  key  as  noiselessly  as 
possible.  Then  turning  it,  she  opened  the 
door,  and  peered  tremblingly  into  the  dark 
ness.  She  saw  nothing.  She  put  forth  her 
head.  Nothing  was  revealed.  Could  it  have 
been,  after  all,  a  mistake  ?  She  tried  for  the 
moment  to  think  so.  She  dared  not  blow  the 
light  out  just  yet,  however,  but  walked  with 
it  up  the  stairs,  and  then,  reaching  the  top, 
she  extinguished  it. 

It  was  dark  all  the  rest  of  the  way  to  her 
room,  and  she  hurried  on  as  quickly  and  as 
noiselessly  as  she  could,  but  there  was  a  ter 
rible  sense  of  being  pursued  which  almost 
overcame  her.  When  at  last  she  reached 
her  own  room,  she  closed  her  door  hastily, 
locked  it,  and  then  instantly  lighted  the  gas, 
whose  bright  flame,  illuminating  the  whole 
apartment,  quickly  drove  away  every  vestige 
of  her  recent  terror. 

Had  she  not  found  that  casket,  there  is 
no  doubt  that  the  smothered  cough  which 
she  had  heard  or  imagined  would  have  im 
pressed  her  much  more  deeply,  and  excited 
within  her  mind  some  strange  suspicions ; 
but,  as  it  was,  the  casket  filled  all  her 
thoughts,  and  she  had  an  inordinate  and 
irresistible  longing  to  open  it  at  once. 

Once  more  she  searched  among  the  keys. 
O.ne  there  was,  the  smallest  in  the  bunch,  of 
very  peculiar  shape,  which  seemed  exactly 
adapted  to  that  casket.  She  tried  this  one 
first  of  all.  It  was  the  right  one!  She 
turned  it.  The  casket  was  unlocked. 

Her  heart  was  now  throbbing  most  vehe 
mently,  and  for  a  moment  she  delayed  before 
lifting  the  lid,  fearful  of  the  result  of  this 
search.  At  length,  however,  the  momentary 
hesitation  passed ;  she  laid  her  hand  on  the 
lid  and  raised  it. 

The  casket  was  there,  open  before  her 
eyes. 

Inside  of  this  there  was  a  parcel.     On  the 


outside   of    this   parcel   were   written    these 
words : 

"  MY  DARLINGS." 

Inez  opened  the  parcel,  with  hands  trem 
bling  now  in  this  supreme  moment  of  excite 
ment,  and  the  contents  soon  lay  revealed. 

What  it  contained  was  a  locket  made  of 
gold,  of  most  exquisite  design  and  finish, 
around  the  edges  of  which  was  a  row  of 
brilliants.  This  locket  was  about  two  inches 
in  length,  and  somewhat  less  in  width.  Its 
shape  was  oval.  It  was  constructed  so  as  to 
open  in  three  places,  and  on  the  edge  there 
were  three  springs.  By  pressing  the  spring 
on  the  right,  the  side  of  the  locket  flew 
open  ;  the  left  spring  opened  the  left  side  of 
the  locket ;  and  the  middle  spring  opened 
the  locket  in  the  middle. 

Each  one  of  these  openings  disclosed  a 
miniature  portrait,  exquisitely  painted  on 
ivory.  One  of  these  represented  a  lady,  the 
second  a  girl  of  about  twelve  years  of  age, 
the  third  a  child.  Under  each  portrait  was  a 
tablet,  on  which  was  engraved  some  letters. 
Under  the  lady's  was  the  name  "  Inez ; "  un 
der  the  girl's  was  the  name  "  Clara ; "  and 
under  the  child's  was  the  name  "  Inez." 

As  Inez  opened  these  and  looked  at  them 
one  by  one,  her  heart  beat  so  fast  and  her 
hands  trembled  so  violently,  that  she  had  to 
lay  the  locket  down.  She  gasped  for  breath. 
She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept. 
These  tears  brought  relief,  and,  once  more 
taking  up  the  locket,  she  looked  at  the  por 
traits  through  her  tears. 

She  looked  at  those  portraits,  and  there 
arose  within  her  feelings  mysterious,  un 
speakable,  unutterable.  They  seemed  like 
dreams — those  faces.  Where  in  her  life  had 
she  seen  the  lovely  face  of  that  lady  who 
smiled  on  her  there  out  of  that  portrait  so 
sweetly  ?  Where  had  she  ever  seen  the  face 
of  that  beautiful  girl  Clara,  whose  deep,  dark 
eyes  were  now  fixed  on  her  ?  And  who  was 
that  child  Inez  ?  Who  ?  Could  the  thought 
that  was  in  her  mind  be  true  ?  Dare  she  en 
tertain  such  a  fancy  ?  Had  she  herself  ever 
been  one  of  those  three  ?  Could  it  be  that 
she  herself  had  ever,  in  far-off  days,  been  the 
original  of  that  beautiful  child-portrait  that 
now  met  her  eyes — smiling  in  its  innocent 
happiness  ?  Was  that  her  sister  ?  Was  that 
her  mother?  Was  it  possible  that  this  which 
was  in  her  mind  could  be  any  thing  else  than 
a  feverish,  a  delirious  fancy — a  fancy  brought 


36 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


out  of  the  workings  of  that  brain  which  of 
late  had  been  so  intensely  and  so  unremit 
tingly  active  ? 

No  ;  the  faces  were  not  unfamiliar.  These 
were  not  the  faces  of  strangers.  Inez ! 
Clara !  Inez ! 

Hitherto  her  eyes  had  been  fascinated  by 
the  portraits,  but  now  they  caught  sight  of 
something  else  at  the  bottom  of  the  casket. 
It  was  a  piece  of  paper  folded  like  a  letter. 

Sho  took  it  up.  It  was  a  letter.  It  bore 
the  address : 

"HENNIGAR  WYVERNE,  ESQ., 

"London^ 

It  was  a  fine,  bold  hand,  and  resembled 
the  same  one  in  which  the  words  were  writ 
ten  which  Inez  had  seen  on  the  parcel.  On 
opening  it  she  read  the  following  : 

"My  DEAR  HENNIGAR — Will  you  have  the 
kindness  to  keep  this  casket  for  me  until  I  send 
for  it  I  It  contains  their  miniatures,  which, 
after  some  deliberation,  I  have  concluded  not  to 
take  with  me.  Ever  yours, 

"BERNAL  MORDAUNT." 

Bernal  Mordaunt ! 

Inez  read  that  name  over  a  hundred  times. 
This  was  the  meaning  of  the  initials,  then. 
And  Mordaunt!  Why,  that  was  Bessie's 
name.  What  was  the  meaning  of  that? 
Did  Bessie  know,  after  all?  Had  she  all 
along  been  acquainted  with  all  this  ?  Could 
it  be  possible  that  Bessie  had  known  that 
secret  which  she  tried  so  hard  to  conceal 
from  her  ?  She  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
regarding  Bessie  all  along  as  a  sort  of  human 
butterfly,  but  she  began  to  think  that  Miss 
Mordaunt  might  have  a  far  deeper  nature 
than  she  had  ever  imagined. 

For  hours  Inez  sat  up,  thinking  over  this, 
without  being  able  to  understand  it.  At  last, 
however,  her  exhausted  nature  gave  out,  and 
she  retired  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A    CURIOUS   FANCY. 

BLAKE  watched  the  steamer  until  it  was 
out  of  sight,  and  then  turned  sadly  away. 
The  great  change  that  had  come  over  Inez 
disheartened  him,  for,  although  he  was  aware 
of  the  cause,  he  was  not  prepared  for  such  a 


result.  It  seemed  to  him  now  as  though  this 
separation  was  an  eternal  one,  and  the  star 
tling  revelation  which  had  been  made  by  the 
dying  Wyverne,  while  it  filled  him  with 
amazement,  seemed  also  to  fix  between  him 
and  Inez,  for  all  the  future,  a  deep  and  im 
passable  gulf.  His  present  residence  was 
Paris,  and  he  returned  there  on  the  follow 
ing  day. 

Arriving  there,  he  spent  some  time  in  his 
rooms,  after  which  he  went  forth  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  Quartier  Latin.  Here  he  en 
tered  a  house,  and,  going  up  to  the  second 
story,  knocked  at  the  door  of  a  room  in  the 
rear  of  the  building. 

"  Come  in,"  said  a  deep-bass  voice. 

Blake  entered  thereupon,  saying  :  "  Hell- 
muth,  old  fellow,  how  are  you  ? " 

At  this,  a  man  started  up,  letting  a  pipe 
fall  from  his  mouth  to  the  floor,  and  upset- 
ting  a  chair  as  he  did  so. 

"  Blake !  "  he  cried.  "  By  Heaven,  Blake  ! 
Is  this  really  you  ?  Welcome  back  again  ! " 

And,  with  these  words,  he  strode  over  tow- 
_ard  his  visitor,  and  wrung  his  hand  heart- 

Dr.  Blake's  friend  was  a  man  of  very 
peculiar  physiognomy.  He  was  a  tall  man, 
broad-shouldered,  deep -chested,  and  large- 
limbed.  His  hair  was  short,  his  beard  was 
cropped  quite  close,  and  a  heavy  though 
rather  ragged  mustache,  with  long  points  de 
pending  downward,  overshadowed  his  mouth. 
Hair  and  beard  were  grizzled  with  plentiful 
gray  hairs,  which  gave  an  air  of  grimness  to 
his  face.  His  brow  was  deeply  wrinkled,  his 
eyes  were  deep  set,  and  gray  and  piercing. 
His  nose  was  aquiline,  ar.d  he  had  a  trick  of 
stroking  it  with  the  forefinger  of  his  left  hand 
whenever  he  waa  involved  in  thoughts  of  a 
graver  kind  than  usual.  It  was  an  austere 
face,  a  stern  face,  yet  a  sad  one,  and  one,  too, 
which  was  not  without  a  certain  charm  of  its 
own ;  and  there  were  many  who  could  bear 
testimony  to  the  warm  human  heart  that 
throbbed  beneath  the  sombre  exterior  of  Kane 
Hellmuth. 

The  room  was  a  large  one,  and  a  bedroom  ad 
joined  it,  but  both  were  furnished  in  the  most 
meagre  manner.  .The  floor  was  of  red  tiles. 
There  was  a  sofa  and  an  arm-chair.  A  plain 
deal  table  stood  in  the  centre.  Upon  this 
was  a  tumbler  and  a  bottle,  a  tobacco-box, 
and  several  pipes. 

Blake  flung  himself  on  the  sofa,  and  Kane 


A   CURIOUS   FANCY. 


37 


Hellmuth  picked  up    the  chair,  and  seated 
himself  on  it  again. 

"  You've  been  gone  a  long  time,  Blake," 
said  he,  stooping  to  pick  up  his  pipe,  and 
filling  it  again  as  he  spoke.  "  I  began  to 
think  that  you  had  emigrated  altogether  from 
the  capital  of  civilization,  to  saw  the  bones 
of  outside  barbarians." 

"  Oh,  I've  been  rusticating  a  little,"  said 
Blake,  indifferently,  "  and  doing  a  little  in  the 
way  of  business.  I've  been  last  in  Switzer- 
Lnd — I'll  give  an  account  of  myself,  some 
time.  And  what  have  you  been  doing  with 
yourself?" 

"  Won't  you  take  something  ?  "  said  Hell- 
muth,  without  noticing  Blake's  last  remark. 
"  I've  some  cognac  here." 

"  Cognac !  what !  you  with  cognac  ?  "  said 
Blake,  in  evident  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  said  Hellmuth.  "  I've  had  to  come 
to  it." 

Saying  this,  he  rose  from  his  chair,  and 
going  to   a  closet   he    produced   a  tumbler, 
which  he  gravely  placed  on  the  table. 
"  Take  some,"  said  he. 
Blake    poured    out   a    little.      Hellmuth 
poured  out  half  a  tumblerful,  and  gulped  it 
down. 

"  You'd  better  smoke,"  said  he. 
"  I  think  I  shall,"  said  Blake,  and,  produ 
cing  a  meerschaum  from  his  pocket,  he  filled 
and  lighted  it.  Hellmuth  lighted  his  also, 
and  soon  the  room  began  to  grow  somewhat 
cloudy.  Silence  now  followed  for  some  time, 
which  may  have  been  owing  to  the  occupa 
tion  afforded  by  the  process  of  smoking,  or 
may  have  been  caused  by  preoccupation  of 
mind  on  the  part  of  both  of  them. 

Kane  Hellmuth,  however,  seemed  more 
absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts  than  Blake. 
He  stretched  out  his  great,  long  legs,  leaned 
back  his  head,  and,  with  eyes  half  closed, 
puffed  forth  great  volumes  of  smoke  toward 
the  ceiling.  Blake  lounged  on  the  sofa,  occa 
sionally  watching  the  form  of  the  other 
as  it  loomed  through  the  gathering  smoke- 
clouds.  He  seemed  on  the  point  of  speaking 
several  times,  but  each  time  he  checked  him 
self. 

The  silence  was  at  length  broken  by  Kane 
Hellmuth. 

"  Blake,"  said  he,  suddenly — and,  as  he 
said  this,  he  sat  upright  and  rigid,  fixing  his 
piercing  gray  eyes  on  his  friend. 

"Well,"  said  Blake,  unconsciously  rising 


out  of  his  lounging  position,  and  looking  up 
in  some  surprise. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  ghosts  ?  " 

"Ghosts,"  repeated  Blake — "believe  in 
ghosts  ?  What  a  question !  Why,  man,  what 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  this :  do  you  believe  in  ghosts  ?  " 

"Why  —  I  believe  in  —  apparitions,  of 
course — that  is — you  know — I  believe  that  in 
certain  abnormal  conditions  of  the  optic 
nerve — " 

"  Oh,  of  course — of  course,"  interrupted 
Kane  Hellmuth,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  "  I 
know  all  that — every  word  of  it.  All  jargon 
— nothing  but  words.  That  is  the  case 
wherever  science  deals  with  the  soul.  I  need 
not  have  asked  you  such  a  question.  You're 
a  materialist,  and  you  believe  nothing  but 
what  can  be  proved  by  experiment.  I  once 
had  the  same  belief.  But  let  me  tell  you,  my 
dear  boy,  your  materialism  is  only  good  for 
the  daylight  and  the  sunshine.  Wait  till  it 
is  all  dark — outside  and  inside,  for  mind  and 
body — and  then  see  what  becomes  of  your 
materialism.  It  goes  to  the  dogs." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  Blake;  "  but,  at  any 
rate,  science  can  have  nothing  to  do  with  fan 
cies.  It  is  built  up  out  of  actual  facts.  Sci 
ence  is  not  poetry  or  superstition.  It  is  the 
truth,  whether  pleasant  or  unpleasant.  For 
my  part,  I  am  a  scientific  man,  and  nothing 
concerns  me  that  cannot  be  proved." 

"  Well,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  "  we  need 
not  argue.  I  might  say  that  science  is  in  its 
infancy,  and  can  decide  nothing ;  that  there 
are  things  as  far  out  of  its  reach  as  the 
heaven  is  beyond  the  earth,  but  what's  the 
use  ?  I  come  back  to  myself.  I'm  glad  you're 
here,  Blake.  I've  got  an  infernal  load  on  my 
mind,  and  I  want  to  tell  it  to  somebody,  if 
it's  only  for  the  relief  that  one  feels  after  a 
clean  confession." 

Kane  Hellmuth  drew  a  long  breath,  laid 
his  pipe  on  the  table,  and,  turning  his  eyes 
toward  where  Blake  was  sitting,  sat  for  some 
moments  in  silence,  staring  intently  before 
him.  It  was  not  at  Blake  that  he  was  look 
ing,  but  at  vacancy ;  and  his  thoughts  were 
far  away  from  the  scene  immediately  be 
fore  him.  Blake  did  not  interrupt  him, 
but  sat  watching  him,  waiting  for  him  to 
speak. 

At  last  Kane  Hellmuth  broke  the  silence. 
His  voice  was  harsh,  and  he  spoke  with  sol 
emn  and  impressive  emphasis. 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


"  Blake,"  said  he,  slowly,  "  I'm  a  haunted 
man ! " 

At  this  extraordinary  remark  Blake's  first 
impulse  was  to  laugh,  but  there  was  some 
thing  in  the  expression  of  Kane  Hellmuth's 
face  which  checked  the  rising  levity. 

"  The  circumstances  are  so  extraordinary," 
murmured  Hellmuth,  as  though  soliloquizing, 
"and  it  has  been  repeated  so  often  that  it 
cannot  be  explained  on  the  ground  of  fancy, 
or  of  hallucination.  You  see,  an  hallucination 
generally  arises  out  of  a  surrounding  of  ex 
citing  circumstances,  and  is  always  accom 
panied  by  some  degree  of  mystery,  unless,  of 
course,  as  you  said  a  little  while  ago,  the  optic 
nerve  is  immediately  affected ;  but,  mind  you, 
my  boy,  you  take  a  thoroughly  healthy  man — 
a  man  of  iron  nerve,  clear  head,  practical 
mind,  strong  body — put  that  man.  in  a  public 
street,  or  in  a  railway-train,  or  in  the  midst 
of  his  daily  duties,  and  say  would  it  be  pos 
sible  for  such  a  man  to  be  subject  to  an  hal 
lucination,  and  to  experience  it,  not  once  but 
four  several  times,  and  in  such  away  that  the 
form  presented  before  his  eyes  was  most  cer 
tainly  no  mere  apparition,  but  a  real  exist 
ence  ?  " 

Kane  Hellmuth  had  been  looking  at  the 
floor  as  he  spoke,  and,  on  finishing,  raised 
his  eyes  with  earnest  and  solemn  inquiry  to 
Blake. 

Blake  made  no  answer.  He  was  not  pre 
pared  to  form  any  reply. 

Kane  Hellmuth  was  putting  his  case  very 
strongly,  but  Blake's  ignorance  of  all  the  cir 
cumstances  forced  him  to  wait  till  he  should 
hear  more. 

"As  to  the  face,"  continued  Helminth, 
once  more  lowering  his  eyes,  and  falling  into 
his  soliloquizing  tone,  "there  is  no  possibility 
of  mistaking  it.  It  can  belong  to  one,  and  to 
one  only.  The  features,  the  eyes,  the  expres 
sion,  could  by  no  possibility  belong  to  any 
other.  Yet  how  this  can  be,  and  why  it  can 
be,  I  cannot  comprehend." 

"  What  is  the  form  that  is  commonly  as 
sumed  by  this — this — ah — appearance  that 
you  speak  of?"  asked  Blake,  as  Kane  Hell 
muth  again  paused.  "  Is  there  only  one  ap 
parition,  with  only  one  shape,  or  are  there 
several,  with  something  in  common  ?  " 

"  There  is  onb  one,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth, 
solemnly.  "  It  is  always  the  same  features, 
form,  and  dress." 

"Would  you  have  any  objection  to  tell 


what  it  is  like  ?    Is  it  a  man,  or  a  woman,  or 
a  child,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  woman,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth. 
"  She  is  always  dressed  as  a  nun.  The  face 
is  always  the  same,  and  bears  one  unchanged 
expression." 

"  A  nun  !  "  said  Blake.  "  That  would  be 
a  black  dress.  Pardon  me  if  I  allude  to  spec 
tral  illusions,  but  have  you  ever  investigated 
the  subject  of  colors  with  regard  to  optical 
delusions,  and  do  you  know  how  black  would 
affect  such  illusions  ?  " 

"  I  have  not." 

"  Nor  have  I.  I  thought,  perhaps,  that 
the  suggestion  might  be  worth  something." 

"  No,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  "  it  is  worth 
nothing  in  this  case,  for,  after  all,  the  dress 
is  the  least  important  part  of  this  visitor  of 
mine.  It  is  the  face — the  face,  the  features, 
the  look,  above  all,  the  eyes,  that  fix  them 
selves  upon  me,  and  seem  to  penetrate  to  my 
inmost  soul." 

"  Is  this  face  that  you  speak  of  at  all  fa 
miliar — that  is  to  say,  does  it  look  like  any 
face  with  which  you  have  formerly  been  ac 
quainted,  or  is  it  some  perfectly  strange 
one  ?  " 

"  Familiar  ?  "  exclaimed  Kane  Hellmuth. 
"  It  is  only  too  familiar.  It  is  the  face  of 
one  who  has  been  associated  with  the  bright 
est  and  the  darkest  moments  of  my  life — one 
who  was  more  to  me  than  all  the  world,  and 
whose  memory  is  still  dearer  to  me  than  all 
other  thoughts.  Years  ago  I  lost  her,  and 
that  loss  broke  up  all  my  life.  I  never  think 
it  worth  while,  Blake,  to  talk  about  so  unim 
portant  a  subject  as  myself;  but  I  may  re 
mark  that  I  was  once  a  very  different  man 
from  what  I  now  am,  and  occupied  a  very  dif 
ferent  position.  She  was  with  me  in  that  old 
life ;  but,  when  she  died,  I  died,  too.  I  am 
virtually  a  dead  man,  and  it  seems  that  I  hold 
communion  with  the  dead." 

To  Blake  this  strange  discourse  seemed 
like  the  ravings  of  incipient  insanity.  It  was 
unusual  in  Kane  Hellmuth,  who  had  all  along, 
ever  since  Blake  had  known  him,  been  distin 
guished  for  his  perfect  clear-headedness  and 
dry,  practical  nature.  Yet  now  it  seemed  as 
though  beneath  all  this  there  was  some  lurk 
ing  tendency  to  insanity,  and  that  Kane  Hell 
muth's  strong  intellect  was  giving  way.  His 
strange  language,  and  his  fancy  that  the  dead 
had  appeared  to  him,  together  with  his  evi 
dent  liability  to  spectral  illusions,  all  awak- 


A   CURIOUS   FANCY. 


39 


ened  new  feelings  in  Blake's  mind,  and  he 
now  felt  anxious  to  learn  what  his  friend  be 
lieved  had  appeared  to  him,  so  as  to  see  the 
direction  which  his  wandering  fancy  or  his 
disease  might  be  taking.  It  was  a  friendly 
sympathy  with  such  an  affliction,  and  an 
earnest  desire  to  be  of  some  service. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Hellmuth,  in  the  same 
strain,  "  I  died  once.  We  died  together,  at 
the  same  time.  I  am  now  dead,  in  law,  in 
reality,  virtually  dead — a  dead  man  !  And  it 
is  because  I  am  still  moving  about  among 
living  men,  I  dare  say,  that  she  comes  to  me 
now  to  warn  me.  Last  night's  appearance 
showed  that  things  were  coming  to  a  climax." 

"  Last  night  ?  "  asked  Blake.  "  You  saw 
this  as  recently  as  last  night,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Ilellmuth,  "  for  that  matter  I 
see  it  now — that  is  to  say,  I  have  so  vivid  a 
memory  of  it  that  by  shutting  my  eyes  now  I 
can  reproduce  it." 

"  How  many  times  have  you  seen  it  alto 
gether?" 

"  Four  times." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  first  saw  it  ?  " 

"  About  two  years  ago." 

"  Have  you  any  objection  to  tell  me  the 
kind  of  appearance  which  presented  itself 
each  time,  and  the  circumstances  under  which 
you  saw  it  ?  " 

"  Objections  ?  certainly  not ;  I  am  anxious 
to  tell  you  exactly  how  it  was  in  each  case." 

Hellmuth  drew  a  long  breath,  and  was  si 
lent  for  a  few  moments.  He  then  continued  : 

"  I  came  to  Paris  about  two  years  ago. 
Not  long  after  my  arrival  here  I  went  to 
Notre-Dame.  I  went  to  hear  Pere  Hyacinthe. 
I  was  a  great  admirer  of  his.  There  was  an 
immense  crowd  there,  as  usual.  I  was  in  the 
midst  of  it  when  it  parted  to  make  way  for  a 
procession.  At  that  moment  I  saw,  straight 
in  front  of  me,  just  across  the  space  made 
for  the  procession,  not  more  than  six  feet 
away,  the  figure  of  a  nun  !  She  was  clothed 
in  black  from  head  to  foot.  Her  face  was 
turned  to  me,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
mine  with  a  burning  intensity  of  gaze  that 
penetrated  to  my  inmost  soul.  The  face  was 
full  of  unutterable  sadness  and  mournfulness, 
and  there  was  also  in  it  a  deep  and  overpow 
ering  reproachfulness.  I  cannot  describe  it 
at  all.  There,  however,  was  this  black  nun 
with  the  pale  face  of  death  opposite  me,  with 
in  reach,  standing  there,  motionless  as  a 
statue,  with  her  eyes,  full  of  a  terrible  fascina 


tion,  fixed  on  mine.  It  was  the  figure,  the 
face,  the  look,  the  eyes,  the  attitude,  and  the 
expression  of  my  dead  wife  !  " 

Kane  Hellmuth  looked  at  Blake  with  a 
gaze  that  seemed  to  search  out  the  thoughts 
of  the  other,  and  again  paused  for  a  few  mo 
ments. 

"  Well,"  he  resumed,  "  I  need  not  enlarge 
on  my  own  feelings.  Words  are  useless.  I 
will  only  say  that  this  figure  thus  stood,  mo 
tionless,  looking  at  me,  and  I  stood,  motion 
less,  looking  at  her,  across  this  space  that 
seemed  to  have  opened  on  purpose  to  disclose 
her  to  me ;  and  the  time  seemed  long,  yet  it 
could  not  have  been  longer  than  was  neces- 
-sary  to  allow  the  procession  to  come  six  feet 
or  so.  The  procession  moved  on,  and,  in  the 
smoke  of  incense,  and  the  confusion  of  the 
crowd,  the  figure  was  lost  to  sight.  After 
the  procession  had  passed,  I  looked  every 
where,  but  saw  nothing  more  of  it. 

"  I  must  say  that  I  was  very  much  upset 
by  this ;  but  the  habit  of  scientific  thought 
came  to  my  aid,  and  I  accounted  for  it  in 
various  ways — such  ways  as  you  would  sug 
gest  to  explain  away  what  you  consider  the 
fancies  of  a  disordered  brain.  Still,  I  knew 
perfectly  well  that  my  brain  was  not  in  the 
slightest  degree  disordered,  and  so  I  fell  back, 
or  tried  to  fall  back,  upon  the  theory  that  it 
was  some  chance  resemblance  that  had  so 
affected  me.  Various  things  affected  my  be 
lief  in  this ;  but,  nevertheless,  it  seemed  the 
only  terrible  one,  but  the  impression  produced 
on  me  was  deep,  and  seemed  likely  to  be  last 
ing. 

"  Well,  several  months  passed  away,  and 
at  length  I  had  occasion  to  take  a  run  over 
to  England.  It  was  early  morning.  The 
train  in  which  I  was  had  gone  about  ten 
miles,  and  reached  a  small  station,  the  name 
of  which  I  forget.  Another  train  was  stop 
ping  there,  and,  just  as  we  came  in,  it  was 
beginning  to  move  out.  I  was  sitting  on  the 
side  next  to  the  other  train,  carelessly  look 
ing  out  of  the  window.  I  was  facing  the  en 
gine,  so  that  the  other  train  moved  toward 
me,  and  thus  I  threw  my  eyes  over  the  pas 
sengers  as  they  passed  by.  Suddenly  my 
gaze  was  riveted  by  a  face  which  was  turned 
toward  me.  It  was  on  the  other  train.  It 
was  a  nun — the  same  nun — the  same  face, 
the  same  look,  the  same  expression,  the  same 
eyes ;  and  they  fastened  themselves  on  mine 
with  the  same  burning  intensity  of  gaze  which 


AN   OPEN    QUESTION. 


I  had  noticed  at  Notre-Dame.  At  this  sec 
ond  meeting  I  felt  even  more  overwhelmed 
than  on  the  first  occasion.  Again  the  time 
seemed  very  long  in  which  those  eyes  held 
mine  in  the  spell  of  their  terrible  fascination  ; 
yet  it  could  not  have  lasted  longer  than  the 
brief  moment  that  was  requisite  for  the  other 
train  to  pass  us. 

"  After  this  second  visitation,  I  confess 
I  felt  more  bewildered  than  ever.  I  gave  up 
my  journey  to  England,  and,  quitting  the 
train  at  Amiens,  I  came  back  here.  If  the 
first  sight  of  this  nun  figure  had  been  un 
accountable,  this  second  one  was  even  more 
so.  Several  months  more  now  passed  away, 
and  I  can  only  say  that  I  remained  in  a  state 
of  perfect  bewilderment  as  to  the  cause,  of  the 
two  appearances  which  I  have  described.  I 
began  now  to  think  that,  since  I  had  seen  it 
twice,  I  might  see  it  again,  and  was  conscious 
of  an  uneasy  state  of  mind,  in  which  I  felt 
myself  to  be  constantly  on  the  lookout. 
Thus  far  it  had  appeared  in  the  midst  of 
crowds,  and  by  daylight ;  the  next  time  it 
carae  it  might  appear  in  solitude,  and  amid 
the  darkness.  The  thought  was  not  a  pleas 
ant  one,  and  yet  I  cannot  say  that  I  felt  ex 
actly  afraid.  It  was  more  awe  than  fear,  to 
gether  with  a  decided  reluctance  to  be  sub 
jected  to  any  further  visitation. 

"  At  length  it  came  again.  It  was  during 
the  \3LStfcte  Napoleon.  It  was  a  little  after 
nine  in  the  evening.  I  was  seated  in  front 
of  the  cafe  Vigny,  on  the  Boulevard  de  la 
Madeleine.  I  was  smoking,  and  indolently 
watching  the  crowd  of  people  that  streamed 
by,  and  listening  to  the  confused  murmur  of 
idle  chat  or  noisy  altercation  that  rose  all 
around  me.  The  crowd  was  immense ;  and 
the  passing  forms,  the  rolling  carriages,  the 
noise,  tumult,  music,  and  laughter,  all  served 
to  draw  my  mind  out  of  certain  thoughts  over 
which  it  had  been  brooding  somewhat  too 
much. 

"  It  was  at  this  moment,  and  in  this  place, 
then,  sitting  there  smoking,  amid  the  sur 
roundings  of  every-day  life,  and  the  flare  of 
prosaic  gas-lights,  that  I  saw  it  again.  It 
passed  along  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk.  I 
was  looking  toward  the  other  side  of  the 
street  when  it  glided  into  sight.  It  moved 
slowly  along  with  a  solemn  step ;  and,  as  it 
moved,  it  turned  its  face  and  fixed  its  eyes 
full  upon  me.  It  was  the  same  figure — the 
black  nun's  dress — and  the  same  look,  inex 


pressibly  sad,  despairing,  and  reproachful 
It  did  not  stop,  but  moved  along,  and  was 
gradually  lost  in  the  crowd. 

"There  was  something  about  its  glance 
that  thrilled  through  me,  and  seemed  to  take 
away  all  my  strength.  I  felt  as  before — pet 
rified.  I  longed  to  advance  toward  it,  and 
find  out  for  myself  whether  this  shape  was 
corporeal  or  incorporeal.  I  could  not.  Even 
after  it  had  passed  I  felt  unable  to  move  for 
some  time.  When  at  length  I  was  able  to 
rise  from  my  seat,  I  went  off  after  it  in  the 
direction  which  it  had  taken,  but  I  could  not 
find  out  any  thing  whatever  about  it,  or  see 
any  figure  whatever  that  bore  the  slightest  re 
semblance  to  it." 

Kane  Hellmuth  fixed  his  eyes  more  sol 
emnly  than  ever  on  Blake,  and,  after  a  short 
silence,  continued : 

"  Last  night  I  saw  it  once  more.  But 
there  are  certain  circumstances  connected 
with  this  fourth  meeting  which  cannot  be  en- 
telligible  to  you  without  further  explanation. 
I  think  I  shall  have  to  trouble  you  with  an 
account  of  my  past  to  some  extent,  if  you 
care  to  listen,  and  don't  feel  bored  already." 

"  My  dear  old  boy,"  said  Blake,  earnestly, 
"  I  shall  feel  only  too  glad  to  get  the  confi 
dence  of  a  man  like  you." 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE   FATAL   DRAUGHT. 

BLAKE  drew  himself  nearer  to  his  friend, 
in  the  intensity  of  the  curiosity  that  was  by 
this  time  awakened  within  him.  Kane  Hell 
muth  rose  to  his  feet,  poured  out  a  glass  of 
raw  cognac,  drank  it  down,  and  then,  resum 
ing  his  seat,  he  sat  erect,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  vacancy. 

"  When  I  say,"  began  Kane  Hellmuth, 
"  that  I  am  at  this  moment  a  dead  man,  and 
that  I  died  ten  years  ago,  you  think,  of 
course,  either  that  I  am  using  figurative  lan 
guage,  or  else  that  I  am  showing  signs  of  in 
sanity.  Neither  of  these  is  the  case,  how 
ever.  When  you  hear  what  I  have  to  say, 
you  will  perceive  that  these  words  are  true, 
and  actually  describe  my  present  condition. 

"It  is  a  little  more  than  ten  years  ago 
that  I  was  married.  My  wife  was  an  English 
girl.  She  was  at  a  pensionnat  in  this  city. 
Girls  m  this  country  are  seldom  allowed  any 


THE   FATAL  DRAUGHT. 


liberty  before  marriage  ;  but  she  was  an  Eng 
lish  girl,  and  for  that  reason,  perhaps,  was 
allowed  a  far  greater  degree  of  freedom  than 
would  otherwise  have  been  possible.  I  be 
came  acquainted  with  her  through  the  me 
dium  of  an  English  family — people,  by-the- 
way,  whom  I  thought  very  singular  associates 
for  one  like  her.  She  was  about  seventeen, 
fair,  fragile,  innocent  as  an  angel.  The  first 
time  that  I  saw  her,  I  loved  her  most  pas 
sionately.  I  was  able  to  see  her  frequently, 
and  at  length  induced  her  to  marry  me. 

"  I  had  nothing  whatever  to  marry  on.  I 
was  at  that  time  a  mad  spendthrift;  and, 
though  I  began  life  with  a  handsome  allow 
ance  as  second  son,  I  soon  spent  it  all,  and 
had  plunged  head  over  heels  iu  debt.  My 
father  paid  my  debts  once,  and  died  soon 
after.  My  elder  brother  would  do  nothing 
for  me,  and  so  I  soon  found  myself  in  a  des 
perate  position.  I  had  to  leave  England,  and 
come  here.  Here  my  bad  habits  followed  me, 
and  I  soon  found  myself  involved  as  heavily 
as  ever.  It  was  under  these  circumstances 
that  I  had  the  madness  to  get  married,  and 
drag  another  down  into  the  abyss  in  which  I 
was. 

"  She  was  an  orphan.  She  had  lost  her 
mother  four  years  before.  Her  father  was 
broken-hearted,  and  left  the  country.  She 
heard  of  his  death  soon  after.  She  had  been 
at  this  boarding-school  ever  since.  She  had 
a  guardian.  There  had  been  a  sister  in  her 
family,  a  mere  child,  who  had  also  died. 
Thus  she  was  alone  in  the  world,  and  under 
the  authority  of  a  guardian  whom  she  had 
never  seen  but  once,  and  who  took  not  the 
slightest  interest  in  her.  She  had  no  future 
before  her,  and  loved  me  as  passionately  as  I 
loved  her,  and  was  therefore  quite  willing  to 
be  mine. 

"  Well,  I  had  a  little  money  about  me, 
and  with  this  I  started  on  a  bridal  tour.  We 
went  to  Italy,  and  spent  three  months  there 
— three  months  of  perfect  happiness — three 
months  which,  in  so  miserable  a  life  as  mine 
has  been,  seem  now  like  a  heaven  of  bliss,  as 
I  look  back.  I  drove  away  all  thoughts  of 
my  circumstances.  I  gave  myself  up  alto 
gether  to  the  joy  of  the  present.  I  would 
not  let  the  cares  of  the  future  interfere  for 
one  moment  with  the  happiness  which  I  had 
with  her.  I  knew  that  there  would  have  to 
be  an  end,  but  waited  till  the  end  should 
come. 


"  At  length,  the  beginning  of  the  end  ap 
proached,  and  I  began  to  see  the  necessity 
of  exertion  of  some  sort.  I  had  already 
written  to  the  guardian,  acquainting  him  with 
the  marriage.  I  now  wrote  to  him  a  second 
time.  He  had  taken  no  notice  whatever  of 
the  first  letter,  which  excited  my  suspicions 
that  he  was  inclined  to  be  severe  on  us.  I 
had  an  idea,  however,  that  he  might  have 
some  property  belonging  to  my  wife,  and 
wished  to  know  what  there  was  to  rely  on. 

"  Paris  was  not  a  very  pleasant  place  for 
one  in  my  circumstances,  nor  was  it  safe  for 
me  to  go  there ;  but  I  risked  all,  and  went 
there,  expecting  that  the  guardian  would 
prove  amiable,  and  trusting  to  the  chapter 
of  accidents.  While  I  was  about  it,  I  wrote 
also  to  my  elder  brother,  telling  him  that  I 
was  married,  that  I  intended  to  lead  a  new 
life,  and  asking  him  to  use  his  influence  to 
get  me  some  office. 

"  I  got  my  brother's  answer  first.  He 
had  always  felt  a  grudge  against  me,  because 
my  father  had  once  paid  my  debts.  It  seemed 
as  though  so  much  had  been  taken  from  him. 
I  never  knew  before  what  an  avaricious  and 
cold-hearted  nature  he  had.  If  I  had  known 
it,  I  would  not  have  written.  His  letter  was 
perfectly  devilish.  He  sneered  at  my  mar- 
riage,  and  lamented  that  his  circumstances 
would  not  allow  him  to  do  the  same,  remind 
ed  me  of  all  my  shortcomings,  threw  up  the 
old  grudge  about  my  debts,  and  told  me  that 
with  my  talents  I  should  have  won  a  rich 
wife.  Such  was  his  letter.  It  prepared  me 
for  worse  things,  and  these  soon  came  to 
pass. 

"  On  my  arrival  at  Paris,  my  creditors  all 
assailed  me,  of  course.  I  went  to  see  the 
chief  ones,  and  gave  them  to  understand  that 
my  wife  had  money,  and  that,  when  I  could 
come  to  terms  with  her  guardian,  I  would 
settle  every  thing.  The  thing  seemed  plausi 
ble  to  them,  and  they  consented  to  wait.  It 
was  a  lie,  of  course ;  but,  when  a  man  is  in 
debt,  there  is  no  lie  which  he  will  not  tell  to 
fight  off  his  creditors.  The  course  of  a  fail- 
ing  merchant,  or  a  gentleman  going  to  ruin, 
is  generally  one  prolonged,  lie. 

"At  length,  wearied  with  waiting,  I  wrote 
once  more  to  the  guardian,  telling  him  that, 
if  I  did  not  hear  from  him,  I  would  bring  my 
wife,  visit  him  in  person,  and  force  him  to 
render  an  account  of  her  affairs. 

"  This  time  I  got  an  answer ;  it  was  not 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


very  long.  lie  said  that  my  wife  had  no 
fortune  at  all  for  which  to  render  an  account 
that  she  had  been  maintained  at  his  expense 
thus  far,  and  he  had  hoped  that  she  would  do 
far  better  for  herself  than  she  had  done.  Her 
marriage  without  his  consent,  he  declared 
had  destroyed  all  claims  that  she  might  have 
on  his  consideration.  He  cast  her  off,  and 
thought  it  but  just  that  the  man  who  had 
stolen  her  should  support  her.  In  answer  to 
my  threat  about  coming  in  person,  he  merely 
remarked  that  for  one  in  my  position  England 
would  hardly  be  a  desirable  place  to  visit. 

"  111  news  soon  spreads.  This  break-up 
of  my  last  hope  became  gradually  known. 
It  may  have  been  gathered  from  my  own 
words  or  manner ;  but,  whatever  the  cause 
was,  it  was  certainly  found  out,  and  I  soon 
began  to  feel  the  effects  of  it.  The  crowd  of 
clamorous  and  hungry  creditors  gathered 
thick  around  me,  and  ruin,  utter  and  abso 
lute,  was  inevitable.  I  had  no  more  money; 
I  could  not  even  fly,  for  I  was  watched,  and 
could  not  buy  my  tickets.  I  owed  my  land 
lord,  who  also  was  as  clamorous  as  the  rest. 
One  day  more,  and  I  should  be  thrown  into 
prison,  with  no  hope  of  escape.  I  should  be 
torn  from  my  wife  forever.  And  she — what 
would  become  of  her  ?  She  whom  I  had 
guarded  so  tenderly  —  she  who  had  never 
known  what  it  was  to  struggle  for  herself, 
with  all  her  youth  and  beauty  and  innocence 
— what  could  she  do,  if  I  was  torn  from  her, 
if  she  was  driven  from  the  boarding-house 
into  the  streets,  alone,  penniless,  alone  in  a 
great  city,  and  that  city  Paris?  There  was 
Iiell  in  that  thought. 

"  Such  was  my  position.  For  me  there 
was  ruin — imprisonment  perhaps  for  life — 
eternal  separation  from  my  wife  ! — for  her  a 
fate  worse  ten  thousand  times — the  hideous 
fate  which  awaits  the  unprotected  innocent  in 
a  city  like  Paris.  Thus  the  crisis  had  come. 
One  day  more  would  decide  all.  The  landlord 
had  threatened  me  with  ejection  and  arrest. 
One  day  more  would  plunge  me  into  a  prison- 
cell,  and  throw  my  wife  on  the  streets.  We 
had  no  friends.  She  was  alone  in  the  world. 
So  was  I.  She  loved  me  so  passionately  that 
separation  from  me  would  be  death  to  her — 
death  ?  that  would  be  the  lightest  of  the  evils 
that  awaited  her." 

Kane  Hellmuth  paused.  He  had  spoken 
thus  far  in  low  but  vehement  tones,  and, 
though  he  tried  to  restrain  himself,  there  were 


visible  marks  of  the  intense  agitation  of  feel 
ing  that  was  called  up  by  all  these  bitter 
memories.  He  sat  erect  and  rigid,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  gloomily  before  him,  and  his  hands 
clutching  the  arms  of  his  chair.  But  the 
hands  that  grasped  the  chair  were  strained  to 
whiteness  by  the  convulsive  energy  of  that 
pressure ;  and  his  brow  lowered  into  a  frown 
as  black  as  night;  while  on  his  face  the 
brown,  weather-beaten  complexion  had 
changed  to  a  dull,  ghastly  pallor. 

"  Death  ! "  he  repeated.  "  Yes,  death  ! 
If  I  had  been  torn  from  her,  and  flung  into 
prison,  I  should  have  killed  some  one,  and 
have  destroyed  myself.  Arrest  was  death. 
For  my  wife  there  was  no  better  fate.  For 
her  the  best  thing  that  could  take  place  was 
death.  Death  was  before  us  in  any  case,  and 
therefore  the  question  in  mv  mind  became 
reduced  to  this :  How  shall  this  death,  which 
is  inevitable,  be  best  encountered  ? 

"  These  thoughts  had  been  coming  to  me 
gradually,  and  out  of  these  thoughts  came 
this  conclusion.  It  took  shape  when  my 
brother's  letter  came,  and  assumed  a  final  and 
definite  form  when  I  received  the  answer  from 
the  guardian.  For  myself  it  was  easy  to 
decide — but  in  this  case  I  had  more  than  my 
self  to  consider.  My  wife.  How  could  she 
bear  the  thought  ?  Or  how  could  she  receive 
the  communication  which  I  wished  to  convey 
when  it  was  one  like  this  ? 

"  Thus  far  she  had  known  nothing  except 
that  I  loved  her.  I  had  not  shared  with  her 
a  single  one  of  my  cares.  I  had  spared  her 
all  unnecessary  distress.  In  my  own  anguish 
it  pleased  me  to  see  her  innocent  happiness, 
to  listen  to  her  bright  plans  for  the  future,  to 
watch  the  expression  of  her  eloquent  face  as 
she  talked  with  me.  Never  was  there  a  man 
more  devotedly  loved — more  adored  than  I 
was  by  her.  The  whole  wealth  of  a  loving 
nature  she  poured  forth  to  me.  She  had  not 
one  single  thought  apart  from  me.  Her  love 
was  like  worshio  in  its  devotion,  but  it  had 
;he  warmth  and  the  glow  of  human  passion. 

"  But  the  communication  which  I  longed 
;o  make  was  made  at  last.     It  had  to  be  made, 
t  was  the  day — the  last  day  of  our  freedom. 
The  next  day  was  to  end  all.     It  was  early  in 
ihe  morning.     I  had  not  slept  all   night  long, 
in  the  morning  she  told  me  that  she  had  not 
slept.     Then  she  looked  at  me  with  unutter- 
ble  mournfulness.     We  were  sitting  at  the 
jreakfast-table  at  that  time.     She  looked  at 


THE  FATAL  DRAUGHT. 


43 


me  as  I  have  said,  and  then  with  a  sudden  im 
pulse  she  flung  her  arms  about  me,  and,  bury 
ing  her  face  on  my  breast,  burst  into  tears. 

"  I  said  nothing.  These  were  her  first 
tears  with  me.  I  dared  not  even  soothe  her, 
for  fear  lest  I  should  be  unmanned. 

"At  length  she  overcame  her  feelings. 
She  raised  herself,  and,  looking  at  me  with 
intense  earnestness,  she  began  to  speak,  in  a 
low,  calm  voice,  in  which  there  was  not  a 
trace  of  emotion. 

" '  You  are  keeping  from  me  some  terrible 
secret,'  said  she,  '  and  I  am  miserable.  What 
is  it  that  is  on  your  mind  ?  There  is  noth 
ing  that  you  need  not  tell  me.  There  is  only 
one  thing  that  could  be  a  calamity  to  me — to 
lose  your  love.  And  I  have  not  lost  that  yet 
— have  I,  darling  ?  ' 

"  As  she  said  this,  I  drew  her  close  to 
me,  and  pressed  her  to  my  heart.  And  then 
I  told  her  all.  I  told  her,  looking  into  her 
eyes,  and  watching  her  face.  She  listened  in 
silence. 

"  I  told  her  what  was  before  us.  ...  I 
told  her  what  there  was — for  her — and  for  me 
— prison — death — worse.  .  .  . 

"  Finally,  I  told  her  what  I  had  thought  of  as 
an  escape  for  both  of  us.  ...  I  tried  to  light 
en  the  blow,  by  speaking  of  our  eternal  union 
hereafter— to  be  secured  by  leaving  this  life 
together. 

"  She  was  terribly  agitated.  So  sudden  had 
been  this  revelation !  It  was  too  sudden.  In 
my  own  excitement  at  that  time  I  did  not  no 
tice  it  so  much  ;  but  in  the  years  that  have 
elapsed  since  then,  I  have  recalled  every  look 
of  hers,  every  act,  every  word.  Above  all,  I 
have  been  haunted  by  that  first  look  that  was 
called  up  on  her  face — that  look  of  mourn- 
fulness  inexpressible — of  despair — of  mute 
reproach — all  of  which  were  in  her  face — and 
the  burning  intensity  of  gaze  with  which  her 
sad,  earnest  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  mine. 
She  clung  to  me.  She  again  hid  her  face  on 
my  breast.  She  wept  there  long ;  and  all  the 
time  I  talked  on.  I  caressed  her.  I  tried  to 
console  her  as  best  I  could. 

"  At  length  she  raised  herself  again,  and 
looked  at  me  with  unutterable  love  and  devo 
tion  ;  her  voice  was  calm  again.  She  told 
me  she  would  do  whatever  I  proposed — that 
she  was  mine,  body  and  soul— for  this  life  and 
the  next — that  life  without  me  was  impossi 
ble — that  if  I  were  torn  from  her  she  would 
die — that  she  would  rather  die  with  me  than 


away  from  me — and  to  die  together  would  be 
sweet,  since  we  had  to  die. 

"  All  these  sweet  and  loving  words  filled 
me  with  delight  and  enthusiasm.  I  began  to 
speak  about  the  life  to  which  we  were  going, 
and,  as  I  had  filled  my  head  with  the  senti 
mental  ravings  of  French  novelists,  I  had  no 
lack  of  assurance  as  to  the  immediate  bliss  that 
awaited  us  in  spite  of  such  a  mode  of  departure 
from  this  life.  To  all  this  she  listened  quiet 
ly.  She  did  not  share  my  enthusiasm.  Her 
religious  training  must  have  made  it  seem 
false  to  her.  But,  in  her,  love  triumphed  over 
religion,  and  she  consented  to  die  because  I 
asked  her.  She  did  not  expect  to  go  to  heav 
en  ;  that  is  evident  to  me  now ;  but  she  only 
wished  to  go  with  me  wherever  I  should  go — 
or  wherever  I  should  send  her.  There  was  in 
her  heart  the  stimulus  of  a  glorious  purpose 
— of  which  I  knew  nothing,  but  which  had 
occurred  to  her  then,  and  animated  her  to  the 
task." 

Kane  Hellmuth  stopped  abruptly,  and, 
closing  his  eyes,  let  his  head  fall  forward  on 
his  breast.  He  was  overcome  by  his  feelings, 
and  by  the  throng  of  dark  memories  which 
were  gathering  around  him ;  and  waited  for  a 
while  to  collect  his  thoughts  and  his  strength 
before  relating  the  end.  Blake  watched  him 
in  silence,  with  a  face  full  of  a  mournful  in 
terest.  At  last  Ilellmuth  raised  his  head  and 
went  on,  speaking  very  rapidly  : 

"  She  said  that  it  would  be  sweet  to  die 
for  me,  and  that  she  would  only  take  the  fatal 
draught  from  my  hand.  She  said  that  she 
would  give  me  my  draught.  Thus,  she  said, 
we  would  avoid  the  guilt  of  suicide.  It 
seemed  then  like  the  sweet  casuistry  of  love ; 
but  since  then  I  have  known  that  it  was  an 
act  of  divine  self-sacrifice,  the  sudden  im 
pulse  of  devoted  love,  that  threw  her  own  life 
away  in  calm  self-abnegation ;  and  sought  to 
find  a  way  to  save  me  by  the  sacrifice  of  her 
self.  But  I  suspected  nothing  then.  I  let 
her  do  as  she  chose.  I  put  the  phial  of  poison, 
which  I  had  procured  already,  in  her  hand, 
and  she  went  to  the  sideboard  and  poured  it 
out  in  two  glasses.  Then  she  came  back  and 
placed  them  on  the  table.  She  handed  one 
to  me  and  I  handed  the  other  to  her.  Then 
we  sat  looking  at  one  another  for  some  time. 
She  was  now  trembling  violently.  I  took  her 
hand  and  held  it,  hoping  thus  to  strengthen 
her.  In  vain.  I  began  to  fhlter  at  the  sight 
of  her  great  distress.  But  at  that  moment  I 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


was  roused  by  a  noise  at  the  door.  I  thought 
at  once  of  the  officers  of  the  law,  and  the 
landlord,  and  hurried  there  to  see  who  it  was. 
I  saw  no  one.  Then  I  came  back — and  this 
last  alarm  restored  my  resolution.  I  took  her 
hand — and  we  both  drank.  .  .  ." 

Again  Kane  Hellmuth  paused,  and  it  was 
now  a  long  time  before  he  went  on. 

"  This  is  what  I  mean,"  he  resumed  in  a 
hoarse  voice,  "  when  I  say  that  I  died  then, 
and  am  a  dead  man  now.  Out  of  that  death 
I  revived.  I  found  myself  in  a  hospital,  just 
emerging  from  a  burning  fever.  I  learned 
that  I  had  been  there  for  months.  It  was 
months  before  I  was  able  to  leave.  I  learned 
that  I  had  been  sent  here.  And  where  was 
she  ?  Who  had  buried  her  ?  How  had  I 
escaped  ? 

"  For  days  and  weeks  there  was  but  one 
thought  on  my  mind.  How  had  I  escaped  ? 

"  And  gradually  there  came  to  me  a 
thought  that  made  life  more  intolerable  than 
ever.  I  saw  it  all  at  last.  I  recognized  her 
loving  purpose,  in  her  proposal  to  give  me  my 
draught.  She  had  designed  to  save  me.  She 
would  die — willingly,  since  I  wished  it ;  glad 
ly,  since  death  would  be  administered  by  me. 
She  would  die ;  but,  nevertheless,  she  would 
save  me,  and  this  was  her  sweet  deceit — to 
give  me  a  draught  which  should  produce 
senselessness,  out  of  which  I  might  come 
back  to  life,  while  she  would  go  where  I  sent 
her. 

"  I  thought  also  that  I  could  see  another 
reason.  She  had  understood  from  my  words, 
no  doubt,  that  she  had  reduced  me  to  this. 
She  saw  that  my  care  was  for  her,  and  that, 
were  it  not  for  her,  I  should  not  die  —  or 
think  of  dying.  Alone,  I  could  live;  but  I 
could  not  support  her.  This,  no  doubt,  she 
saw,  although  no  such  thought  ever  came  to  my 
mind.  This  she  saw,  and  therefore  she  died. 
— Yes.  Basil  Blake — look  on  me,  and  recog 
nize  a  villain  who  has  done  to  death  the 
most  loving  wife  that  ever  gave  her  heart  to 
man.  She  died,  that  I  might  live;  that  I 
might  be  free  from  what  she  supposed  was 
an  incumbrance  to  me  in  my  poverty.  Ah, 
now — how  well  I  understand  that  look  which 
she  gave  me  when  first  I  communicated  to 
her  my  fatal  plan  1  Ah,  great  Heaven ! 
Why  did  death  reject  me?  What  business 
have  I  in  life  ? 

*'  The  moment  that  I  was  able,  I  fled  from 
Paris.  I  considered  myself  dead.  I  resolved 


to  begin  a  new  life.  You  wonder  that  I 
didn't  kill  myself.  I  wonder  too.  At  any 
rate,  I  considered  myself  a  dead  man.  My 
name  is  not  Hellmuth  ;  what  it  used  to  be  is 
no  matter.  It  is  Hellmuth  now.  Once  only 
did  I  make  use  of  the  old  name.  It  was  in  a 
letter  which  I  wrote  to  the  guardian.  I  found 
myself  cherishing  a  faint  hope  that  she  might 
have  escaped.  I  wrote  to  him,  telling  him 
briefly  what  had  happened.  After  some  de 
lay,  I  received  an  answer.  It  destroyed  my 
last  hope.  It  informed  me  that  my  wife  was 
dead  ;  that  she  was  found  dead  in  the  room 
on  that  morning ;  and  that  she  was  buried 
in  Pere-la-Chaise,  through  the  pity  of  some 
one  of  the  creditors  who  had  relented  at  the 
sight  of  the  ruin  which  had  resulted  from  my 
vicious  and  guilty  extravagance. 

"After  this,  I  became  a  wanderer.  I 
worked  with  my  own  hands  to  get  my  living. 
I  have  been  over  all  the  world  as  a  common 
seaman.  I  have  worked  as  a  laborer.  About 
two  years  ago  I  came  back  to  Paris,  feeling 
an  uncontrollable  desire  to  visit  her  grave. 
It  is  at  Pere-la-Chaise.  I  go  there  often.  It 
is  a  simple  slab  bearing  her  name,  with  the 
date  of  her  death. 

"  And  now,"  continued  Kane  Hellmuth, 
"  you  will  be  able  to  understand  the  full  sig 
nificance  of  what  I  spoke  of  first.  That 
black  nun  is  the  form  and  face  of  her  who  is 
buried  in  Pere-la-Chaise.  The  expression 
on  her  face  is  precisely  the  same  which  I 
saw  there  when  I  first  told  her  of  my  pur 
pose.  All  that  despair  and  mournfulness  un 
utterable  ;  all  that  mute  reproach ;  and  even 
all  that  deep,  self-sacrificing  love — all  is  there. 
It  is  the  same  face  always.  Remember  this, 
and  bear  this  in  mind,  while  I  tell  you  what 
happened  last  night  at  Pere-la-Chaise." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

DEAD      OR      ALITE? 

KANE  HELLMUTH  gulped  down  another 
glass  of  raw  cognac. 

"  She  is  buried  in  Pere-la-Chaise,"  said 
he.  "  They  put  a  stone  over  her  grave,  and 
I  found  it  without  trouble.  I  went  there  the 
moment  I  reached  Paris.  No  one  knew  me. 
All  danger  for  me  was  over,  if  I  had  cared 
for  danger.  I  came  only  to  weep  at  her 
tomb.  It's  the  fashion  on  the  Continent  for 


DEAD   OR  ALIVE? 


men  to  weep,  you  know."  He  frowned,  and 
frigged  at  his  tawny,  ragged  mustache. 

"Yes,"  he  added,  "and  a  very  conve- 
'nient  fashion  it  is,  too,  sometimes — or  else 
— a  poor  devil's  heart  might  break." 

Something  like  a  groan  burst  from  him, 
and  he  dashed  his  brown  hand  across  his 
eyes. 

"  It's  two  years,"  he  continued,  "  since  I 
came  here.  You  know  how  I  live.  I  hap 
pened,  in  my  wanderings,  to  be  at  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope  the  time  the  diamond  excite 
ment  broke  out.  I  had  nothing  else  to  do, 
so  I  went  to  the  diggings,  and  had  moderate 
luck.  That's  one  reason  why  I  came  here. 
I  put  my  gains  in  government  stock,  and  got 
enough  francs  to  keep  me  in  my  plain  fash 
ion.  All  I  want  is  to  be  within  walking-dis 
tance  of  Pere-la-Chaise — not  too  near,  you 
know ;  enough  to  take  up  a  good  day,  if  ne 
cessary,  in  going,  staying  there,  and  coming 
back.  Somehow,  during  these  late  years,  my 
religious  views  have  changed.  I  no  longer 
hold  to  the  gospel  of  the  French  novelists.  I 
do  not  now  believe  that  I  should  have  gone 
straight  to  heaven  from  my  lodging-house; 
and  I  comfort  myself  by  praying  for  the  soul 
of  my  lost  Clara.  The  Church  stands  between 
the  living  and  the  dead.  I  feel  a  strange  con 
solation  in  the  thought  that  I  am  not  cut  off 
utterly  from  her  whom  I  have  lost.  The 
Church  sends  up  her  prayers,  and  I  blend 
mine  with  them.  By  her  grave  I  feel  nearest 
to  her,  and  therefore  I  go  to  Pere-la-Chaise. 
Therefore,  also,  I  have  adopted  the  mode  of 
life  which  you  see  me  following — acting  as  a 
sort  of  lay-brother,  going  about  among  the 
poor  devils  of  fallen  humanity  whom  I  see 
around  me,  and  trying  to  do  something  to 
give  them  an  occasional  lift.  I  would  have 
scorned  the  African  diamonds  if  they  could 
have  given  me  no  more  than  a  living  for  my 
self.  I  took  them  for  Clara's  sake;  and, 
since  she  made  me  live,  and  sent  me  back  to 
life  when  she  went  to  death,  so  I  study  to 
make  my  life  such  that  I  may  meet  her  here 
after  with — with  less  shame  than  I  might 
otherwise  feel. 

"  But  now,  my  boy,  listen,"  continued 
Hellmuth,  rousing  himself  and  drawing  a 
long  breath,  "listen.  You  know  Pere-la- 
Chaise — that  is,  in  a  general  way.  You  know 
the  tombs  there.  The  grave  is  about  Gfty 
paces  away  from  the  gate,  in  one  of  the  more 
obscure  parts  of  the  cemetery.  Close  by  it  is 
4 


a  cenotaph,  with  an  iron  door,  and  inside  this 
cenotaph  is  an  altar,  as  is  often  the  case.  On 
this  altar  the  friends  of  the  dead  place  im 
mortelles,  and  frequently  on  Sundays  or  holi 
days,  or  on  the  anniversary  of  deaths,  they 
place  lighted  candles  there.  Yesterday  was 
one  of  these  occasions,  and  the  candles  were 
burning  after  dark,  throwing  out  a  faint 
gleam  through  the  iron  bars  of  the  door. 

"  No  one  is  allowed  there  after  dark ;  but, 
when  one  is  inside,  he  may  stay,  for  no  one 
can  see  him  easily  among  so  many  monu 
ments.  I  went  there  toward  evening,  and 
stayed  after  dark.  I  had  frequently  done  so 
before.  Amid  the  darkness,  it  seemed  as 
though  I  was  drawn  nearer  to  her.  By  her 
grave  it  seemed  as  though  I  could  hold  com 
munion  with  her  departed  spirit.  At  least  it 
was  consoling  to  be  so  near  even  to  her  mor 
tal  remains. 

"  So  I  remained  there,  and  the  gates  were 
shut,  and  I  was  alone  in  that  city  of  the 
dead.  The  shadowy  monuments  rose  all 
around  on  every  side,  and  looked  like  a 
ghostly  population.  I  was  by  her  grave. 
From  the  cenotaph  nearest  me  the  lights 
shone  forth,  and  illuminated  a  small  space  in 
the  gloom.  As  I  sat  there  I  thought  over  all 
the  events  of  the  mournful  past.  I  had  been 
praying  for  the  repose  of  her  soul,  but  what 
was  the  meaning  of  that  visitation  which  I 
had  had  three  times  ?  Was  her  spirit  not 
yet  at  rest  after  so  many  years  ?  Was  there 
any  thing  which  she  wanted  of  me  ?  What 
was  there  that  I  could  do  ? 

"  Then  I  knelt  over  her  grave  and  prayed. 

"  How  long  I  was  kneeling  I  do  not  know. 
I  haven't  the  slightest  idea,  nor  is  there  any 
way  of  finding  out.  There  are  occasions  in 
a  man's  life  when  human  measurements  are 
useless,  and  duration  extends  itself  indepen 
dently  of  the  limitations  of  time.  It  might 
have  been  long,  or  it  might  have  been  short; 
I  do  not  know.  I  only  know  this,  that,  sud 
denly,  in  the  midst  of  the  deep  abstraction 
of  prayer  and  meditation,  I  became  aware  of 
a  presence  near.  There  had  been  no  noise 
that  I  was  conscious  of;  there  was  no  foot 
fall,  no  breathing  even — nothing.  How  the 
knowledge  came  I  do  not  know,  but  it  did 
come,  and  I  was  thus  aware  of  some  object, 
some  shape,  some  being,  in  my  neighborhood. 

"  I  had  been  meditating  profoundly  and 
praying  earnestly.  I  had  striven  to  abstract 
myself  from  all  thoughts  of  the  external 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


world,  but  thus  it  was  that,  through  all  the 
solemn  gloom  of  that  self-abstraction,  and 
that  elevation  of  soul  above  the  world,  there 
came  to  me  this  suggestion  of  a  living  thing 
near  me. 

"  I  roused  myself,  and  raised  my  head, 
and  looked  forth  into  the  scene  before 
me. 

"The  first  glance  was  enough.  There  was 
something,  as  I  had  been  aware,  and  what  it 
was  I  saw  instantaneously.  The  feeble  light 
of  the  wax  -  candles  came  glimmering  out 
through  the  bars  of  the  iron  gate  of  the 
cenotaph  into  the  gloom,  and  fell  upon  an 
object  there,  which  was  standing  full  before 
me,  not  more  than  half  a  dozen  yards  away — 
standing  there  erect,  a  human  shape,  with 
black  robes — the  robes  of  a  nun.  The  light 
shone  on  its  face,  and  the  face  was  full  before 
me,  and  it  was  on  this  face  that  my  eyes 
rested  as  I  raised  them.  The  eyes  of  this 
being  also  were  fixed  upon  mine,  and  chained 
them,  and  held  them  with  a  terrible  fascina 
tion. 

"  All  that  I  have  said  about  that  face  was 
there  now,  but  to  me  the  whole  expression 
seemed  intensified.  It  was  the  old,  well- 
remembered  look — the  look  of  her  face  as  it 
had  appeared  when  I  saw  it  last  in  life. 
There  was  that  mingled  grief  and  amaze 
ment,  that  sharp  anguish,  and  dark  despair. 
There,  too,  was  still  that  melancholy  re- 
proach,  which,  on  that  morning,  had  con 
veyed  the  protest  of  an  innocent  young  life 
against  the  destruction  which  I  had  brought 
upon  it ;  but  now  the  reproach  seemed  deeper 
and  involved  a  profounder  condemnation.  The 
eyes  that  chained  mine  in  their  gaze  seemed 
to  have  more  of  that  burning  intensity  which 
I  had  noticed  before,  and  glowed  with  an 
awful  lustre  as  they  met  mine. 

"  I  knelt  and  looked,  but  I  did  not  breathe. 
I  could  not  move.  I  did  not  have  any  im 
pulse  to  fly  away  or  to  spring  toward  it.  It 
seems  to  me  now  as  if  I  was  for  a  short  time 
in  a  state  of  perfect  mental  torpor.  My  state 
of  mind  was  not  one  of  horror.  It  was  im 
becility,  or,  rather,  vacuity.  I  thought  of 
nothing.  I  desired  nothing.  I  feared  noth 
ing.  1  was  simply  conscious  of  the  presence 
of  this  being  who  thus  confronted  me. 

"At  length  the  figure  moved  Its  hands, 
and  then  seemed  to  shrink  away  into  nothing 
ness.  The  darkness  swallowed  It  up.  As  I 
looked,  I  perceived  that  It  was  no  longer 


there.  It  was  gone.  It  had  vanished.  I  was 
alone. 

"  I  remained  there  for  some  time — I  do 
not  know  how  long — in  the  same  position, 
and  in  the  same  state  of  mind.  At  length  I 
gradually  regained  the  use  of  my  faculties.  I 
rose  from  my  knees,  and  walked  forward  in 
the  direction  where  the  figure  had  vanished 
into  the  darkness.  I  found  nothing  whatever. 
I  waited  and  walked  about  for  some  time 
longer,  and  then  I  went  to  the  gate,  roused 
the  keeper,  made  some  explanation  of  my 
presence  there,  and  was  let  out.  I  then  came 
home." 

Such  was  Kane  Hellmuth's  story. 

After  he  had  ended  it,  he  lighted  his  pipe 
and  began  smoking.  Blake  said  nothing,  but 
imitated  his  friend's  example.  The  former 
seemed  lost  in  his  own  meditations,  and  the 
latter  found  it  very  difficult  to  make  any  com 
ments. 

"  Well,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  at  length,  "I 
should  like  to  hear  what  you  have  to  say. 
Say  it  out.  Don't  be  afraid  of  offending  any 
prejudices  or  prepossessions  of  mine.  You're 
a  materialist.  I  am  not.  Let  me  hear  what 
you,  as  a  materialist,  have  to  say." 

"  Well,"  said  Blake,  slowly,  "  in  the  first 
place,  I  have  merely  to  say  this,  that  I  cannot 
for  a  moment  share  your  belief.  For  every 
thing  that  I  have  ever  seen  in  all  my  life,  or 
learned,  or  studied,  shows  this  to  me  with 
perfect  clearness,  that  the  dead  can  never — 
never  come  back  to  life — never — never." 

"You  are  begging  the  question,"  said 
Kane  Hellmuth,  quietly. 

"  Any  theory  is  acceptable  rather  than 
yours,"  said  Blake.  "  The  dead  are  the  dead. 
They  come  back  no  more.  No  fond  longings, 
no  prayers,  can  bring  them  back.  Supersti 
tion  may  call  up  visions,  but  these  are  only 
projections  of  the  brain,  the  images  wrought 
by  the  vivid  fancy.  With  these,  science  and 
reason  can  do  nothing.  No  proof  has  ever 
been  adduced — no  proof  can  ever  be  adduced 
— that  the  dead  can  reappear,  or  can  have 
any  existence,  that  we  can  comprehend." 

"Very  well — we  differ,"  said  Kane  Hell 
muth,  "  and  now  let  me  hear  what  you — re 
jecting,  as  you  do,  my  belief — have  to  pro 
pose  as  a  theory  of  your  own." 

"I  cannot,  on  the  instant,  propose  a 
theory  which  will  satisfy  every  contingency  in 
your  case,"  said  Blake.  "  You  yourself  say 
that  you  have  already  tried  to  account  for  this 


AN   OPEN"  QUESTION. 


semblance  to  her  to  pass  off  as  her  at  a  dis 
tance." 

"  Impossible !  "  said  Kane  Hellmuth ;  u  you 
forget  that  this  one  is  in  a  strange  garb ;  you 
forget  what  casual  meetings  they  have  been  ; 
above  all,  you  forget  that  this  face  is  identical 
with  that  of  my  lost  wife — not  in  feature 
only,  but  in  expression — and  an  expression 
of  a  very  peculiar  nature.  For  the  look  that 
she  gives  me  is  not  one  that  can  be  caught 
up  by  some  impostor.  That  is  inconceivable. 
For  it  is  the  last  look  of  my  dying  wife — dy 
ing  under  such  circumstances — a  look  which 
for  years  has  haunted  me,  and  this  is  the  look 
which  I  now  see  in  this  presence  which  has 
appeared  before  me.  No.  The  theory  of 
hallucination  is  preferable  to  this  last  one.  I 
will  allow  that  my  brother  may  be  anxious  to 
prove  my  death ;  I  will  even  concede  that  he 
may  have  emissaries  in  search  of  me ;  but  I 
maintain  that  this  being  of  whom  I  speak 
cannot  possibly  have  any  connection  with 
that." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Blake,  after  a  pause ; 
"  we  will  let  this  pass.  I  said  there  were  two 
alternatives.  This  is  one.  There  is  yet  an 
other.  It  is  this — do  not  start  when  I  sug 
gest  it ;  you  told  me  to  be  frank ;  I  speak  it 
with  all  respect  and  sympathy  for  you  and 
for  her — Kane  Hellmuth,  after  all,  your  wife 
may  yet  be  alive  !  " 

At  these  words  Kane  Hellmuth  started  to 
his  feet,  and  regarded  Blake  with  an  awful 
face. 

"  She  is  dead  !  "  he  said,  in  a  harsh  voice. 

"  Who  says  so  ?     Who  has  seen  it  ?  " 

"  Did  I  not  get  that  letter  from  her  guar 
dian  ?  " 

"You  did — but  what  of  that?  He  said 
that  some  others  said  so  ;  it  is  third-hand  in 
formation.  Did  you  ever  go  back  to  that 
house  to  ask  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  When  ?  " 

"  When  I  came  back." 

"  What !  two  years  ago  ?  eight  years  after 
it  occurred  !  Why,  by  that  time  the  people 
had  forgotten  it  all,  or  else  they  had  gone 
away." 

Kane  Hellmuth  stared  at  Blake. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said,  hesitatingly ; 
"they  had  gone  ;  I  have  never  been  able  to 
find  them." 

"Mind  now,"  said  Blake,  "I  am  only 
arguing  against  your  theory  of  the  supernatu 


ral.  I  am  showing  you  how  this  may  be  ra 
tionally  accounted  for  on  other  grounds  ;  and 
I  say  this,  that  you  have  not  yet  had  reason 
to  feel  certain  that  she  died.  If  you  escaped, 
why  should  not  she?  How  do  you  know  that 
she  gave  you  a  weaker  draught,  and  took  a 
fatal  one  herself?  That  is  only  a  theory  of 
yours ;  you  have  no  proof.  How  do  you 
know  that  the  drug  was  strong  enough  ?  It 
may  have  lost  its  virtue ;  it  may  have  been 
badly  made  up  ;  she,  in  pouring  it  out,  may 
have  made  a  mistake.  There  are  a  dozen 
ways  of  accounting  for  it  other  than  the  way 
you  have  fancied.  No ;  she  has  lived ;  she 
has  become  a  nun,  thinking  that  you  were 
dead.  You  have  come  across  her  own  self, 
by  chance,  on  various  occasions.  Your  in 
tense  excitement  has  thrown  around  her  va 
rious  semi-supernatural  adjuncts  which  have 
imposed  upon  your  reason.  Go  and  accost 
her  when  you  see  her  next.  Speak  to  her. 
Do  not  allow  yourself  to  sink  into  a  stupor." 

To  all  this  Kane  Hellmuth  listened  with  a 
frown.  Gradually,  however,  the  frown  passed. 
The  old  look  came  back.  He  resumed  his 
seat. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  calmly,  as  Blake  ceased, 
"  it  is  quite  right  for  you  to  say  this.  I  have 
thought  of  all  that,  however,  though  I  must 
say  it  comes  with  fresh  force  from  another. 
Still  there  is  no  conceivable  reason  why  any 
human  beings  should  take  the  trouble  to  get 
up  such  an  elaborate  piece  of  deceit.  It  was 
no  one's  interest  to  do  so.  No  one  could  gain 
any  thing  by  it.  The  people  who  laid  her 
dear  remains  in  the  grave  had  no  motive  for 
acting  a  farce.  The  guardian  had  no  motive 
for  keeping  it  up.  Who  could  have  been 
benefited,  or  what  end  could  have  been 
gained  ?  There  is  her  grave,  and  there  is 
the  stone  with  her  name.  How  can  it  be 
accounted  for  if  she  is  not  dead  ?  " 

"  If  I  were  to  suggest  all  that  is  in  my 
mind  to  say,"  remarked  Blake,  "  you  would 
call  me  visionary.  I  should  think,  however, 
that,  until  you  know  more  than  you  seem  to 
have  learned — more  than  even  she  herself 
seemed  to  know  about  her  antecedents,  about 
her  father,  and  her  guardian,  and  the  nature 
of  that  calamity  which  so  strangely  deprived 
her  of  all  her  friends — until  then  you  have 
no  right  to  say  that  there  was  no  motive  for 
imposing  upon  you  and  the  world  a  false  ac 
count  of  her  death.  But  this  is  a  thing  which 
I  do  not  care  to  speak  of.  One  thing  only  I 


DR.  BLAKE'S  STRANGE  STORY. 


49 


should  like  to  ask — if  you  have  no  objections 
— her  name,  her  maiden  name." 

"  Clara  Mordaunt,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth, 
in  a  low  voice. 
Blake  started. 
"  Mordaunt ! "  he  repeated. 
The  name  was  a  familiar  one,  associated 
with  the  happiest  hours  of  his  life,  with  the 
presence  of  Inez ;  for,  wherever  Inez  Wyverne 
was,  there  too  was  her  friend,  Bessie  Mordaunt. 
Kane    Hellmuth,   however,    was    looking 
away,  and  did  not   notice   the   start   which 
Blake  gave. 

"I  do  not  like  this  guardian,"  said  he, 
after  a  pause.     "  You  should  see  that  man." 
"  So  I  intended  to,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth, 
"  but    unfortunately  it  is   too  late  —  he  is 
dead." 

"Dead?  Ah!  that  is  bad.  Did  he  die 
very  long  ago  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no ;  only  about  a  week  ago.     I  saw 
it  in  the  papers." 
"  Ah ! " 

"  Yes ;  he  died  in  Switzerland  somewhere 
— Villeneuve,  I  think — yes,  it  was  Villeneuve. 
The  name  is  so  peculiar  a  one  that  it  caught 
my  eye  at  once.  I  saw  it  in  Galignani,  a  day 
or  two  ago.  I  am  old  enough  now  always  to 
look  at  the  deaths  and  marriages,  the  first 
thing." 

Blake  did  not  hear  more  than  half  of  this. 
He  heard  only  the  first  words.  As  he  heard 
them,  his  heart  throbbed  wildly,  and  a  feeling 
of  indefinable  terror  came  over  him.  Died 
at  Villeneuve  ! — the  guardian  ! — the  guardian 
of  a  girl  named  Mordaunt!  He  had  suspect 
ed  evil  on  the  part  of  this  guardian  ;  he  had 
given  utterance  to  those  suspicions.  All  the 
wild  words  of  the  dying  man  came  back 
fresher  than  ever  to  his  memory — all  the 
grief  of  Inez,  and  all  the  horrors  of  that 
final  death.  His  face  grew  ghastly  white. 
He  clung  to  the  arm  of  the  sofa  for  support. 
"  What  was  his  name  ?  "  he  gasped. 
"  His  name  ?  "  said  Kane  Hellmuth. 
"  What  ?  the  guardian  ?  It's  a  very  odd 
name.  It's — Hennigar  Wyverne ! " 

"  Great  Heaven !  "  exclaimed  Blake,  with 
so  strange  a  cry  that  Kane  Hellmuth  started 
and  looked  at  him  in  amazement. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
DR.  BLAKE'S  STRANGE  STORY. 

THE  amazement  of  Kane  Hellmuth  at 
the  sight  of  Blake's  face  was  unbounded. 
Thus  far  he  had  been  the  prey  to  excitement, 
and  Blake  had  been  the  sympathizing  friend 
and  spectator.  The  tables  were  now  turned. 
The  emotion  had  passed  to  Blake ;  the  role 
of  sympathizing  spectator  to  Kane  Hellmuth. 
As  for  Blake,  there  was  every  reason,  as  is 
evident,  why  he  should  be  overwhelmed  by 
surprise  and  agitation.  What  his  feelings 
were  toward  Inez  have  been  sufficiently  ex 
plained  ;  what  his  feelings  were  toward  Hen 
nigar  Wyverne  may  be  conjectured.  Mention 
has  already  been  made  of  the  dying  man's 
declaration — that  Blake  was  his  own  son,  and 
of  Blake's  perplexity  at  such  an  announce 
ment.  He  now  found  that  this  man  who  was 
standing  in  so  peculiar  a  relation  toward  him 
self  was  identical  with  the  very  man  whose 
connection  with  Kane  Hellmuth  he  had  found 
so  suspicious ;  and  against  whom  he  had  just 
been  trying  to  lead  up  the  suspicions  of  his 
friend.  Would  he  still  maintain  those  suspi 
cions  ?  Would  he  now  carry  out  to  its  ulti 
mate  consequences  that  train  of  thought 
which  was  on  his  mind  just  before  Kane  Hell 
muth  had  mentioned  the  name  of  Hennigar 
Wyverne  ? 

The  exclamation  of  Blake  was  followed 
by  a  long  silence  and  a  profound  meditation, 
in  which  he  was  evidently  in  a  state  of  great 
embarrassment  and  perplexity. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  this  conver 
sation  has  certainly  taken  a  turn  which  is 
most  extraordinary  and  most  unexpected. 
I  will  not  conceal  from  you  that  I  feel  com 
pletely  upset,  and  that  the  mention  of  this 
guardian's  name  puts  me  in  a  most  astonish- 
ing  position  with  regard  to  this  affair  of 
yours.  I  have  been  brought  of  late  into 
very  close  connection  with  this  man,  and 
there  is  a  very  mysterious  prospect  of  a  still 
closer  connection  being  discovered.  I  have 
not  mentioned  any  thing  of  the  events  with 
which  I  have  been  connected  during  the  past 
few  weeks,  but  there  is  something  in  my  af 
fairs  which  seems  to  run  very  wonderfully 
into  your  own.  There  is  something  also  in 
them  so  puzzling,  so  confounding,  that  I  am 
unable  to  grapple  with  it  altogether.  Per 
haps  you  can  help  me.  Perhaps  we  can  help 


50 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


one  another.  Perhaps  my  affairs  can  throw 
some  light  on  yours,  or  yours  may  throw  light 
on  mine." 

"  Go  ahead  by  all  means,  old  fellow,"  said 
Kane  Hellmuth  ;  "  at  any  rate,  it  will  divert 
my  thoughts,  and  Lord  knows  I  want  some 
thing  to  divert  them  just  now,  or  else  I  shall 
go  mad." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Blake.  "  My  story  be 
gins  from  the  time  that  I  left  here  six  weeks 
ago.  I  was  worn  out  by  overwork.  I  had 
an  undertaking  of  immense  importance  be 
fore  me,  before  entering  upon  which  it  was 
absolutely  necessary  for  me  to  recruit  my 
strength.  A  change  of  air  to  the  sea-side 
was  the  most  important  thing  for  me,  and,  ac 
cordingly,  I  went  to  St.  Male. 

"  On  my  arrival  here  I  found  an  English 
party,  who  at  once  excited  my  deepest  inter 
est.  There  was  an  elderly  gentleman  in  feeble 
health  and  two  young  ladies,  one  of  whom 
was  his  daughter  and  the  other  was  his 
daughter's  friend,  and  perhaps  relative. 
She  seemed  to  look  upon  the  gentleman  as  in 
some  way  her  guardian  ;  but  perhaps  that  is 
my  fancy.  Now  you  will  begin  to  understand 
some  of  the  significance  of  my  story  when  I 
tell  you  that  the  name  of  this  elderly  gentle 
man  was  Hennigar  Wyverne." 

"  Hennigar  Wyverne !  "  repeated  Kane 
Hellmuth.  "Ah,  is  that  sp  ?  Why,  then, 
you  must  have  been  with  him  when  he  died,  if 
you  were  in  Switzerland — that  is,  if  you  got 
acquainted  with  him,  which  I  presume  you 
did." 

"I  did,"  said  Blake.  "I  will  come  to 
that  presently.  I  was  saying  that  there  were 
two  ladies — one  Miss  Wyverne,  the  other — 
the  one  whom  I  may  call  the  ward — Miss  Mor- 
daunt." 

Kane  Hellmuth  started  in  strongest  agita 
tion. 

"  Miss  Mordaunt ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  a  ward 
of  Hennigar  Wyverne.  Great  Heavens  !  man, 
what  story  is  this  that  you  have  to  tell  me  ? 
Miss  Mordaunt !  What  was  her  other  name  ?  " 
"  Bessie,"  said  Blake. 
"  Bessie.  Ah,  that  means  Elizabeth— Eliz 
abeth — H'm — Clara  had  a  younger  sister  who 
died.  Her  death  may  have  been  a  mistake.  But, 
no  ;  that  sister's  name  was  not  Elizabeth.  It 
was  some  foreign  name — unusual.  I  don't  re 
member  it  at  all.  A  similarity  of  name,  prob 
ably  a  relation.  Wyverne  seems  to  have  had 
a  strong  interest  in  the  Mordaunt  family. 


But   what    did     this    Miss    Mordaunt    look 
like  ?  " 

"  Very  pretty,  about  seventeen,  a  brilliant 
blonde,  witty,  frolicsome,  absurd — in  fact, 
more  like  a  sportive  child  than  a  young  lady ; 
the  most  utter  butterfly  I  ever  saw." 

"  No  resemblance  there,"  said  Kane  Hell 
muth,  thoughtfully — "  no  resemblance  whatev 
er.  She  was  a  brunette — grave  and  earnest." 

"  That  is  what  Miss  Wyverne  is,"  said 
Blake. 

"  Well,  go  on,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  anx 
ious  to  hear  more  of  Blake's  story. 

"  I  was  saying,"  resumed  Blake,  "  that 
this  party  excited  in  me  the  strongest  inter 
est.  Miss  Wyverne  appeared  to  me  the  most 
beautiful  being  that  I  ever  saw  ;  and  I  frank 
ly  confess  that  I  fell  in  love  with  her  at  once. 
This  will  account  for  the  persistency  with 
which  I  watched  the  party.  I  had  no  difficulty 
in  doing  so,  for  they  spent  most  of  the  time  in 
the  open  air,  and  Miss  Wyverne  was  always 
with  her  father. 

"  Now,  you  may  take  for  granted  my  love 
for  Miss  Wyverne.  I  make  no  secret  of  that ; 
and  I  mention  it  so  that  you  may  understand 
other  things. 

"  I  soon  saw,  to  my  surprise,  that  the  el 
derly  gentleman  took  an  evident  interest  in 
my  humble  self.  At  first  I  thought  that  he 
had  heard  something  of  my  medical  skill ;  but 
I  soon  dismissed  that  thought  as  a  piece  of 
preposterous  vanity.  Unfortunately,  what 
ever  my  medical  skill  may  be,  the  world 
knows  nothing  at  all  about  it;  so  that  an 
invalid  at  St.  Malo  would  have  been  the  last 
person  to  attribute  any  such  quality  to  me. 
After  a  time  I  began  to  see  that  this  interest 
in  me  grew  stronger,  and  its  manifestation 
more  open.  As  I  met  him  rolling  along  in 
his  perambulator,  or  walking  feebly  up  and 
down  near  his  lodgings,  I  always  caught  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  my  face,  and  they  were  fixed 
there  with  a  certain  intensity  of  gaze  that 
was  most  remarkable.  There  was,  beyond  a 
doubt,  something  in  my  face  which  excited 
his  attention,  and  he  was  studying  it  to  find 
out  for  himself  what  it  was. 

"  Well,  I  was  wondering  how  I  could  get 
acquainted  with  him,  and  trying  to  devise 
some  plan  of  bringing  it  about  so  as  not  to 
force  myself  upon  him,  but  I  could  not 
hit  upon  any  way  that  was  satisfactory. 
My  passion  for  Miss  Wyverne  gave  me  my 
chief  impulse  to  this  ;  but  at  the  same  time  I 


DR.  BLAKE'S  STRANGE  STORY. 


51 


wish  you  to  understand  that  I  felt  an  extraor 
dinary  interest  in  the  old  man,  so  much  so 
indeed,  that  if  Miss  Wyverne  had  gone  away 
I  should  still  have  stayed  there,  so  as  to  try 
to  form  an  acquaintance  with  her  father. 

"  Well,  at  length,  this  problem  was  solvec 
for  me.  Mr.  Wyverne  himself  made  the  ad 
vances — he  sought  my  acquaintance.  One 
day  I  was  standing  looking  out  at  sea  when 
he  came  walking  along,  accompanied  by  his 
daughter,  and  followed  by  his  footman.  He 
came  up  to  me  and  raised  his  hat : 

"  *  Can  you  tell  me,'  he  asked,  'what  that 
steamer  is  ? ' 

"  He  pointed  to  a  large  steamer  passing 
along  out  at  sea.  I  informed  him  to  the  best 
of  my  ability.  He  then  began  a  conversation, 
and  turned  it  to  the  subject  of  the  climate  of 
St.  Malo.  He  soon  found  out  that  I  was  a 
doctor.  This  brought  forth  a  larger  con 
fidence  on  his  part,  and  he  began  to  tell 
me  about  his  troubles  and  his  motive  in 
coming  here.  In  fact,  before  an  hour  we 
seemed  like  old  friends.  He  seated  himself 
upon  a  bench  by  the  road-side,  fronting  the 
sea.  Miss  Wyverne  placed  herself  on  one 
side,  I  on  the  other,  and  we  all  talked  to 
gether  as  though  we  had  known  one  another 
for  a  long  time.  More  than  this,  he  intro 
duced  me  formally  to  Miss  Wyverne,  and 
made  me  accompany  him  to  his  hotel. 

"  There  is  no  need  for  me  to  go  into  de 
tails.  Mr.  Wyverne's  regard  for  me  was  evi 
dent,  and  it  was  so  marked,  so  strong,  and  so 
unvarying,  that  it  afforded  perpetual  surprise 
to  me.  He  engaged  me  regularly  as  his 
medical  adviser,  at  a  salary  that  to  me  was 
enormous ;  he  delighted  to  have  me  with 
him;  he  encouraged  my  attentions  to  Miss 
Wyverne ;  and,  as  she  was  always  with  her 
father,  and  as  he  wanted  me  to  be  always 
with  him,  the  consequence  was,  that  she  and 
I  were  together  far  more  than  is  commonly 
the  case  with  two  young  people  even  when 
they  are  in  tender  relations  with  one  an 
other. 

"  Mr.  Wyverne  was  troubled  with  disease 
of  the  heart.  He  had  been  ordered  to  this 
place  by  his  London  physician,  with  the  in 
junction  to  refrain  from  all  excitement.  That 
injunction  I  enforced  upon  him  with  the  ut 
most  emphasis.  St.  Malo  afforded  many  ad 
vantages,  and  we  remained  there  four  weeks 
after  I  had  made  his  acquaintance.  During 
that  time  I  noticed  his  unfailing  regard ;  but, 


more  than  this,  I  was  often  struck  by  the 
peculiar  expression  which  would  come  to  his 
face  when  his  eyes  rested  on  me — an  expres 
sion  which  had  in  it  a  meaning  that  abso 
lutely  confounded  me.  It  was  a  parental 
look,  but  more  yearning — more  maternal,  in 
fact,  than  paternal;  yet  why  he,  a  perfect 
stranger,  should  regard  me,  another  stranger, 
with  such  an  expression,  was  utterly  and 
completely  out  of  my  power  to  imagine. 

"My  mother  lives  in  England.  I  cor 
respond  with  her  regularly.  Of  course,  I 
wrote  her  all  the  particulars  of  my  acquaint 
ance  with  these  new  friends.  I  was  already 
sufficiently  confounded,  but  the  letter  which 
I  received  from  my  mother  in  answer  to  mine 
completed  my  bewilderment.  It  was  the  most 
extraordinary  epistle  that  ever  was  written. 
My  first  impression  was  that  the  poor,  dear 
lady  had  suddenly  gone  mad.  My  ultimate 
conclusion  was,  that  there  was  about  this 
Mr.  Wyverne  an  unfathomable  mystery,  and, 
what  was  more,  that  my  mother  held  the 
key  to  it.  She  remarked  that  Providence 
had  brought  us  two  together — had  brought 
me  and  Mr.  Wyverne  face  to  face.  She  said 
that  she  was  full  of  amazement  and  gratitude 
at  the  wonder  that  had  come  to  pass  ;  that 
at  first  she  had  felt  like  warning  me  against 
him,  and  advising  me  to  leave  him  ;  but  that 
she  had  prayed  fervently  over  it,  and  her 
mind  had  been  changed.  She  concluded  by 
urging  me  to  devote  myself  to  Mr.  Wyverne ; 
to  follow  him  wherever  he  went ;  to  give  him 
my  love,  and  try  to  win  his  ;  to  watch  over 
him,  and  try  to  prolong  his  life. 

"  Such  was  the  unaccountable  letter  with 
which  my  mother  made  my  confusion  worse 
confounded. 

"At  length  I  became  satisfied  that  the 
sea-air  was  not  so  good  as  it  might  be.  It 
was  what  is  commonly  called  '  too  strong ' 
for  one  in  Mr.  Wyverne's  peculiar  delicacy  of 
liealth  and  feebleness  of  constitution.  I  rec 
ommended  Villeneuve,  which  place  was  well 
known  to  me.  Mr.  Wyverne  at  once  decided 
to  go.  He  did  not  seem  to  have  any  will  but 
mine.  His  reliance  upon  me  had  in  it  some 
thing  exceedingly  touching,  and  there  was 
that  in  his  look  and  in  his  tone  in  addressing 
me  which  was  full  of  a  profound  pathos.  We 
ravelled  by  easy  stages,  and  arrived  there 
without  any  accident." 

After  this  Blake  proceeded  to  recount  the 
vents  which  have  already  been  narrated 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


The  letter  which  had  prostrated  Mr.  Wy verne 
he  had  never  seen.  It  hud  been  picked  up 
by  Bessie,  and  handed  to  Miss  Wyverne. 

The  points  upon  which  Blake  laid  em 
phasis  may  be  summed  up  briefly  in  the  fol 
lowing  way : 

First. — That  Mr.  Wyverne  exhibited  a  re 
gard  for  him  which  was  unmistakable  and 
extraordinary. 

Secondly. — That  Mr.  Wyverne's  expression, 
when  looking  at  him,  had  in  it  something 
most  striking,  and  might  be  called  pater 
nal. 

Thirdly. — That  his  mother's  letter  pointed 
at  some  knowledge  on  her  part  which  made 
it  desirable  for  him  to  continue  his  connection 
with  Mr.  Wyverne,  and  also  led  to  the  suspicion 
that  she  herself  might  have  been  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Wyverne  in  some  way  in  past 
years. 

Fourthly. — Coming  upon  all  these,  and 
gaining  new  meaning  from  these  things,  while 
it  gave  new  emphasis  to  them,  was  the  death 
bed  declaration  of  Mr.  Wyverne,  in  which  he 
claimed  Basil  Blake  as  his  own  son.  At  this 
same  time  he  said  that  Miss  Wyverne  was 
not  his  daughter.  Moreover,  he  wished  Basil 
Blake  to  marry  her. 

Fifthly. — Wyverne's  declaration  was  ac 
companied  with  remorseful  allusions  to  two 
persons.  One  of  these  was  Blake's  mother. 
The  other  was  Miss  Wyverne's  father.  In  his 
manner  of  allusion  to  these  two  there  were 
manifest  the  signs  of  conscious  guilt  of  some 
sort  at  their  expense. 

Sixthly. — Wyverne  had  hastily  sent  for  a 
priest.  lie  had  not  seemed  to  be  so  near 
death  as  to  be  unable  to  receive  holy  com 
munion  ;  but  the  result  had  been  most  unex 
pected.  The  moment  that  his  eyes  had  caught 
sight  of  the  priest  he  seemed  horror-stricken. 
To  Blake  that  death  seemed  caused  by  sheer 
terror.  About  the  priest  he  had  discovered 
nothing.  He  did  not  know  his  name.  The 
question  yet  remained  whether  his  fear  was 
owing  to  the  priest,  or  to  some  resemblance 
which  he  had  fancied  in  the  priest  to  some 
other  person. 

Finally,  after  making  all  due  allowance 
for  every  thing,  there  arose  the  question 
which  of  two  alternatives  to  choose.  One  of 
these  was  the  theory  that  he  was  delirious  all 
through  his  last  illness.  In  this  case  these 
events  must  all  go  for  nothing.  The  other 
was,  that  he  was  conscious  and  perfectly  rea 


sonable.  In  this  case  the  events  of  that 
dying  bed  towered  up  to  supreme  impor 
tance.  They  interwove  themselves  with  other 
things.  They  joined  themselves  to  the  inci 
dents  which  had  gone  before  them,  and  gave 
to  all  these  a  tremendous  significance.  Be 
yond  all  these  preliminary  incidents  these  last 
events  rose  up  to  that  appalling  climax  of 
death,  and  gave  to  Blake  a  new  character,  a 
new  name,  a  new  place  in  the  world,  and  a 
new  duty  in  life. 

How  should  this  be  decided  ? 
The  two  friends  talked  over  this  subject 
from  every  point  of  view. 

"  It  cannot  be  decided  now,"  said  Kane 
Hellmuth.  "You  must  make  further  inquiries. 
Before  you  can  pretend  to  decide  a  question 
of  such  momentous  importance  to  yourself, 
there  are  two  persons  whom  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  for  you  to  see.     One  of  these  is 
that  priest,  if  you  can  possibly  trace  him. 
The  other  is,  of  course,  your  mother." 
"  I  will  write  to  her,"  said  Blake. 
"  Have  you  not  yet  done  so  ?  "  asked  Kane 
Hellmuth,  in  surprise. 
"No." 

"  Then,  do  not  write.     Go  in  person.     See 
her.     Tell  her  all.     See  how  she  looks." 
Blake  hesitated. 

"  You  do  not  understand,"  said  he.  "  It 
is  not  a  subject  that  a  son  can  talk  over  with 
his  mother.  In  fact,  I  feel  a  reluctance  to 
mention  it  even  in  writing.  She  has  made  a 
profound  secret  of  it,  and — in  short — I  do  not 
know  what — painful  memories— I  may  awak 
en — or  what  anguish  I  may  cause  her — by — 
by  bringing  such  a  subject  before  her." 

Kane  Hellmuth  looked  solemnly  at  Blake 
for  a  few  moments,  and  then  asked : 

"Are  you  sure  that  she  is  your  moth 
er?" 

"  My  mother ! "  exclaimed  Blake.  "  What ! 
she — she  not  my  mother !  What !  confident 
of  that  ?  She  !  No  other  thought  is  possible. 
She?  Oh,  yes ;  there  is  no  doubt  about  that. 
All  the  memories  of  my  life  centre  about  her, 
and  all  the  happiness  of  my  life  has  come 
from  her.  From  my  earliest  thoughts,  I  have 
the  recollection  of  her  sweet  face,  her  yearn 
ing  love,  her  tender  words,  and  more  tender 
looks  and  caresses.  Whatever  may  be  the 
mystery  of  my  life,  there  is  none  about  her. 
She  never  could  so  play  the  mother  with  an 
other  woman's  child." 

"  Well,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  "  you  have 


DR.  BLAKE'S  STRANGE  STORY. 


53 


means  of  judging  which  are  superior  to  argu 
ment.  A  mother's  love  cannot  easily  be 
counterfeited.  The  things  you  mention  are 
the  surest  proof  that  she  is  your  mother  ;  and 
so,  if  she  is,  I  can  understand  your  hesitation, 
of  course.  The  priest,  also,  will  be  difficult, 
if  not  impossible,  to  find,  for  the  reason  that 
you  have  not  the  slightest  clew  to  him. 
Should  you  recognize  his  face  if  you  were  to 
see  it  again  ?  " 

"  I  should,"  said  Blake,  "  instantly.  It  is 
so  remarkable  a  face  that  I  could  not  pos 
sibly  mistake  it.  I  could  pick  out  that  priest 
from  among  any  crowd,  and  swear  to  his 
identity." 

"That  is  well,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth, 
thoughtfully.  "There  is  one  other  person, 
by-the-way,  who  ought  to  be  seen.  This 
Miss  Mordaunt.  Surely,  she  knows  some 
thing.  Perhaps  she  could  tell  about — Cla 
ra." 

"  There  would  be  no  necessity  for  me  to 
see  her,"  said  Blake.  "  She  can  know  noth 
ing  of  my  parentage.  You  are  the  one  who 
ought  to  see  her.  If,  as  is  possible,  she  is 
the  younger  sister  of  your  Clara,  she  can  give 
you  some  information  as  to  the  fate  of  her 
father,  and  possibly  may  tell  you  something 
about  that  point  which  we  were  discussing." 

"/have  nothing  to  ask  about,"  said  Kane 
Hellmuth,  calmly.  "  It  was  a  theory  of  yours. 
My  belief  is  fixed.  You,  in  order  to  suggest 
a  commonplace  explanation  to  this  apparition, 
and  to  avoid  the  supernatural,  in  which  I  be 
lieve,  suggested  that  this  was  herself— in  life 
— and,  consequently,  that  she — did  not — in 
short,  that  she  escaped,  as  I  did.  I  main 
tained  that  such  an  escape  was  inconceivable 
in  the  face  of  her  guardian's  testimony  and 
the  actual  grave.  You  then  proceeded  to 
show  that  the  guardian's  conduct  was  suspi 
cious,  that  he  might  have  had  reasons  for 
putting  her  out  of  the  way,  and  concealing 
the  fact  by  a  pretended  death  and  burial.  It 
was  your  theory  ;  it  was  not  mine.  What  do 
you  now  say?  You  yourself  have  seen  this 
guardian  ;  he  was  Henuigar  Wyverne.  You 
knew  him.  Answer  now.  Was  Hennigar 
Wyverne  the  kind  of  man  who  would  have 
been  capable  of  an  infernal  conspiracy,  such 
as  you  suggested  ?  " 

At  this  question  Blake  turned  pale. 
"  When  you  speak  of  Hennigar  Wyverne," 
said  he,  "  you  speak  of  one  for  whom  I  had 
already  formed  a  strong  regard  before  that 


moment  when  he  claimed  me  as  his  son.  His 
evident  regard  for  me  inspired  equal  regard 
in  my  breast.  His  daughter,  too,  made  my 
regard  for  the  father  still  stronger.  He 
seemed  to  me  to  be  an  honorable  gentleman. 
Since  you  ask  me  that  question  now,  I  can 
only  say  to  you,  Kane  Hellmuth — and  I  say  it 
solemnly — I  do  not  believe  that  Hennigar 
Wyverne  was  capable  of  such  an  act  as  the 
one  that  I  have  suggested.  Besides,  the  mo 
tive  which  I  have  imputed  to  him  was  false. 
Here  is  another  Miss  Mordaunt  in  his  family, 
treated  like  a  daughter,  just  as  your  Clara 
would  have  been,  no  doubt,  had  she  lived. 
Whether  there  is  any  inheritance  or  not,  I  do 
not  know;  but  it  could  have  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  dealings  between  guardian  and 
ward  of  which  you  spoke.  I  believe  that 
Hennigar  Wyverne's  letters  to  you  contained 
the  truth.  Harsh  he  may  have  been,  but  I 
do  not  believe  that  he  was  capable  of  any  act 
of  crime.  I  take  it  all  back  ;  and  I  can  only 
say  that  the  mystery  of  your  apparition  re 
mains  at  this  moment  unaccountable." 

A  long  silence  followed.  Such  a  sudden 
change  in  Blake's  sentiments  surprised  Hell 
muth  so  much  that  he  had  nothing  to  say ; 
and  this  testimony  to  the  character  of  Clara's 
guardian  at  once  destroyed  all  suspicion  that 
he  might  have  begun  to  have  of  any  decep 
tion  on  his  part.  These  last  words  of  Blake 
had  also  destroyed  the  very  argument  which 
he  had  framed  but  a  short  time  before. 

"Well,"  said  Kane  Ilellmuth  at  last, 
"  dropping  my  own  affairs  for  the  present,  I 
should  like  to  ask  you  what  you  intend  to  do 
now.  Do  you  intend  to  make  any  examina 
tion  about  the— ah — the  truth  of  the — this 
strange  statement  of  Wyverne's  V" 

To  this  Blake  did  not  return  any  imme 
diate  answer,  but  sat  in  deep  thought  for  a 
long  time. 

"  You  see,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  I  am  pre 
vented  from  taking  any  immediate  action  by 
various  important  circumstances.  In  the  first 
place,  the  only  persons  who  can  give  me  any 
direct  information,  or  rather  whom  I  can  ask 
for  such  information,  are  cut  off  from  me. 
The  priest  has  passed  away,  and  has  left  no 
sign.  There  is  no  conceivable  way  of  tracing 
him.  I  have  already  done  every  thing  that 
man  could  do  to  find  out  something  about 
him,  but  have  been  utterly  unsuccessful.  The 
other  person  is  my  mother ;  but  how  can  a 
son  mention  to  a  mother  such  a  subject  as 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


shis  which  Hennigar  Wyverne's  declaration 
forces  upon  me  ?  No.  Rather  than  mention 
it  to  her  I  would  allow  it  to  remain  an  eternal 
mystery,  and  live  in  ignorance  always.  But, 
in  addition  to  this,  there  is  another  thing  that 
ties  my  hands,"  continued  Blake,  in  a  more 
earnest  tone.  "  This  affair  does  not  concern 
me  only.  It  concerns  another,  and  one,  too, 
who,  as  you  may  have  gathered  from  what  I 
told  you,  is  very — dear  to  me — yes — dearer  to 
me — than — than  life.  It  is  true,  no  words 
of  love  have  ever  passed  between  me  and 
Miss  Wyverne — for  certain  reasons  which  are 
easily  explained — but  yet  her  woman's  instinct 
must  have  revealed  to  her  long  ago  the  nature 
of  my  feelings  toward  her.  Her  father  en 
couraged  my  attentions,  as  I  told  you  ;  but  I 
was  held  back  by  a  consideration  which 
would  have  weight  with  every  high-spirited 
man.  It  is  this :  I  am  poor.  She  is  rich ; 
she  is  an  heiress.  I  could  not  bring  myself, 
as  I  was  and  am,  to  do  any  thing  which  would 
make  me  liable  to  be  stigmatized  by  the  world 
as  a  miserable  fortune-hunter.  No ;  not  one 
word  of  love  would  I  ever  speak  to  her  till  I 
had  in  some  way  lessened  the  immense  dis 
tance  between  us,  and  had  at  least  raised  my 
self  above  the  reach  of  sneers.  I  did  not 
wish  to  get  rich,  nor  do  I  hope  to  do  so  ;  my 
aim  was,  and  is,  in  some  way  to  gain  reputa 
tion  among  men.  At  present  I  am  utterly 
obscure ;  but,  if  I  could  only  gain  some  fame 
for  myself,  I  should  then  be  able  to  come  to 
her  on  more  equal  terms,  and  ask  her  to  be 
mine.  I  know  very  well  how  hard  it  is  for  a 
man  to  push  himself  above  the  level  of  his 
fellows,  but  I  mean  to  try.  The  only  trouble 
is,  it  will  take  too  much  time.  But  never 
mind  about  this. 

"  I  am  speaking  about  what  I  intend  to  do 
in  this  matter  of  Mr.  Wyverne's  strange  dec 
laration.  Now,  that  declaration,  as  you  see 
yourself,  was  twofold.  He  claimed  me  as  his 
son.  Yery  well.  But  then  he  also  disowned 
her  as  his  daughter.  He  took  me  to  his 
heart,  and  addressed  me  in  the  language  of  a 
father;  but  he  also  thrust  her  away,  and 
spoke  to  her  as  one  who  was  of  no  value  to 
him,  and  of  no  interest  in  his  eyes.  And 
that,  too,  on  his  death-bed  !  With  his  dying 
voice  he  informed  her  that  she  was  not  his 
daughter — worse,  he  declared  to  her  that  she 
was  the  daughter  of  his  worst  enemy — an 
enemy,  too,  who  does  not  seem  to  have  in 
jured  him,  and  upon  whom  he  had  inflicted 


injuries  so  terrible  that  they  had  caused  not 
only  the  most  poignant  remorse,  but  also  ex 
cited  in  his  mind  the  sharpest  terrors  of  some 
strange  vengeance  that  his  enemy  meant  to 
inflict. 

"  Now,  you  see,  if  I  aim  to  prove  the 
truth  of  this  statement  of  Mr.  Wyverne's,  or 
even  examine  into  it,  what  is  it  that  I  must 
do  ?  I  must  enter  upon  a  course  of  inquiries, 
the  result  of  which  will  aifect  not  only  my 
self  but  her.  Suppose,  for  the  sake  of  argu 
ment,  that  I  should  at  last  succeed  in  finding 
out  and  in  proving  that  Mr.  Wyverne's  words' 
were  literally  true,  and  not  the  ravings  of  de 
lirium,  I  should  then,  of  course,  discover,  first 
of  all,  that  I  am  his  son,  though  how  in  the 
world  that  could  be  I  do  not  pretend  just  now 
even  to  conjecture.  But  that  would  not  be  all. 
That  same  discovery  would  show  that  she  is 
not  his  daughter.  Who,  then,  is  she  ?  She 
is  some  unknown  person.  Who  is  her  father, 
if  Mr.  Wyverne  is  not  ?  Where  did  she  come 
from  ?  What  dishonor — what  shame — yes, 
what  infamy  would  such  a  discovery  heap 
upon  her  innocent  head !  Good  Heavens  ! 
could  I  have  the  heart ;  would  it  even  be  pos 
sible  for  me  to  cause  such  misery,  such  an 
guish,  to  any  one  in  her  position,  even  if  she 
were  a  total  stranger  ?  I  hope  not ;  I  am  sure 
not.  But  she  is  not  a  stranger.  She  is  the 
one  whom  I  love  better  than  life,  and  I  say 
now  honestly  and  calmly  that  I  would  rather 
die  than  do  any  thing  that  would  interfere 
with  her  happiness.  She !  why  I  am  so 
situated  now  that  my  only  hope  is  to  be  able 
at  some  time  to  gain  her  for  myself ;  and  how 
could  I  now  do  such  a  thing  as  this  ?  No  ; 
my  hands  are  tied.  I  cannot  move  a  step  in 
this  matter.  I  am  only  afraid  that  she  may 
do  something  to  satisfy  her  own  mind ;  and, 
if  there  should  happen  to  be  any  thing  in 
this  ;  if  she  should  discover  that  she  is  really 
not  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Wyverne,  but  of 
some  other  man ;  and  that  I  am  the  one  who 
is  to  supplant  her  and  usurp  her  place — why, 
good  Heavens  !  what  a  gulf  would  that  dis 
covery  place  between  her  and  me  !  And  she 
is  far  enough  removed  from  me  already, 
Heaven  knows !  Besides,  there  is  the  grief, 
the  suffering,  that  such  a  discovery  would 
cause.  She,  poor  girl,  bas  already  suffered 
enough  from  the  mere  suspicion  of  such  a 
thing  as  this.  How  could  I  do  any  thing  that 
might  change  that  suspicion  into  conviction, 
and  thus  increase  her  troubles?  Mr.  Wy- 


MAKING  INQUIRIES. 


55 


verne's  unfortunate  words  have  already  result 
ed  in  changing  her  whole  nature,  in  makin 
her  brood  incessantly  over  this  one  myster} 
which  has  been  suggested  to  her.  Her  former 
kindness  and  friendly  feeling  toward  me  hav 
been  changed  into  what  is  at  the  best  mere 
indifference ;  and,  if  I  have  any  hope  at 
all  now,  it  is  that,  if  nothing  more  is  done 
these  cares  of  hers  may  eventually  pass  away. 
So,  you  see,  these  are  the  things  that  tie  my 
hands  just  now,  and  force  me  to  inaction.' 

Blake  had  spoken  earnestly  and  frankly, 
as  though  he  were  giving  utterance  without 
reserve  to  his  inmost  thoughts.  Helltnuth 
listened  in  silence,  and,  when  he  had  finished, 
made  no  observation  whatever.  Perhaps  he 
thought  Blake's  conclusions  unassailable,  or 
perhaps,  wrapped  up  in  his  own  thoughts,  he 
had  not  heard  a  word  that  his  friend  had 
been  saying. 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

MAKING      INQUIRIES. 

THE  result  of  the  examination  of  the  cas 
ket  had  served  to  complicate  still  further  the 
difficulties  by  which  Inez  was  surrounded,  and 
to  introduce  among  them  new  actors,  most 
conspicuous  among  whom  was  Bessie.  Hith 
erto,  in  her  profound  abstraction,  Bessie  had 
been  quite  lost  sight  of,  and  her  only  aim  had 
been  to  hide  from  her,  as  much  as  possible, 
the  troubles  that  had  come  upon  herself. 
But  now  the  revelation  of  the  true  name  in 
dicated  by  the  initial  "  M.,"  at  once  seemed 
to  bring  Bessie  into  the  circle  of  circum 
stances,  and  suggested  her  as  a  possible  act 
or  in  the  events  which  might  be  forthcoming. 
The  name  showed  that  Bessie  might  be  con 
nected  with  that  same  family  to  which  Mr. 
Wyverne  had  said  she  herself  belonged  ;  her 
connection  with  Mr.  Wyverne  appeared  to 
make  it  certain;  and,  if  this  were  so,  Bessie 
might  be  some  relation  to  herself.  What  re 
lation  ?  This  was  impossible  for  her  to  say. 

This  discovery  of  the  name  of  Mordaunt 
thus  put  Bessie  at  once  in  a  different  posi 
tion.  It  seemed  to  Inez  that  all  along,  under 
the  appearance  of  childish  innocence  and 
friendly  sympathy,  she  had  possessed  the  full 
knowledge  of  that  secret  which  she  had  been 
trying  so  hard  to  keep  from  her.  She  now 
recalled  the  incident  at  Villeneuve  with  re 
gard  to  the  letter.  Bessie  had  picked  it  up. 


She  had  read  it.  She  knew  all  that  was  in 
it.  Doubtless,  she  may  have  thought  over 
the  meaning  of  its  contents  as  earnestly  as 
she  herself  had  done,  and  had  superior  means 
of  information  about  its  statements  to  help 
her  to  a  conclusion. 

To  regard  Bessie  in  so  new  and  unusual  a 
light  was  unpleasant  to  Inez.  She  had  al 
ways  thought  of  her  as  a  frolicsome  child; 
it  did  violence  to  her  feelings  to  think  of  her 
as  one  who  was  as  capable  as  herself  of  keep 
ing  her  own  counsel  and  preserving  a  secret. 
It  seemed  to  her  now  to  be  of  no  use  to 
maintain  her  own  reserve  any  longer.  In 
fact,  it  was  impossible  to  do  so,  and,  more 
than  this,  it  was  absolutely  necessary  for  her 
to  ask  some  questions  of  Bessie.  She  wished 
to  find  out  who  Bessie's  relations  really  were, 
and  to  learn  how  much  she  really  knew  about 
this  matter.  She  had  understood  that  Bessie 
was  an  orphan  child — the  ward  of  Mr.  Wy 
verne— who  would  in  due  time  inherit  a  re 
spectable  fortune,  but  had  never  known  any 
thing  more  definite,  partly  because  Bessie 
was  reticent  on  the  subject  of  her  family, 
and  partly  because  she  herself  felt  a  natural 
delicacy  preventing  her  from  asking  questions 
of  a  private  nature. 

Thus,  therefore,  a  full  explanation  with 
Bessie  was  absolutely  necessary.  But  Inez 
felt  a  strange  repugnance  to  it.  Bessie 
seemed  now  no  longer  the  same,  and  the  en 
tire  confidence  she  once  had  in  her  had  been 
shaken  during  the  past  week.  Still  Inez  was 
of  a  frank  nature,  and  so  she  quelled  her  re 
pugnance,  and  lost  no  time  in  seeing  her 
friend. 

Bessie  met  her  more  than  half-way.  As 
Tnez  entered  her  room  to  engage  in  the  con 
versation  which  she  proposed,  Bessie's  face 
brightened,  and  she  ran  toward  her,  flung  her 
arms  around  her,  and  kissed  her  over  and 
over  again. 

"  Why,  my  own  darling  Inez  ! "  she  ex 
claimed,  "  is  it  possible  ?  And  so  you  won't 
mope  any  longer.  You  have  been  so  sad,  you 
enow.  You  have  quite  broken  my  heart.  I 
tnew,  of  course,  dear,  that  you  could  not 
iclp  being  sad,  yet  still  it  was  very  hard  for 
me  to  see  you  so  absent.  And  you  never 
avored  your  poor  little  Bessie  with  one  sin 
gle  look — no,  not  one  !  And  now,  dear,  you 
nust  cheer  up.  I'll  never,  never,  never  let 
ou  mope  any  more." 

Prattling  in  this  way,  with  the  utmost  ex- 


56 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


uberance  of  affection,  Bessie  clung  to  Inez, 
and  drew  her  toward  the  sofa,  where  they  sat 
down,  Bessie  with  her  arms  fondly  twined 
around  her,  with  her  fresh,  smiling  face  close 
to  that  of  Inez,  and  her  clear  blue  eyes  fixed 
lovingly  upon  those  of  her  friend. 

"  You  shall  never  mope  again,  Inez  dear 
— no,  never,  never.  You  have  others  who 
love  you.  Do  you  think  it  is  right  to  be  so 
cruel  to  a  loving  heart  like  mine  ?  " 

By  such  gushing  affection  as  this,  by  these 
fond  caresses  and  loving  reproaches,  Inez  felt 
at  first  completely  overwhelmed,  and,  for  a 
time,  the  faint  suspicions  that  had  entered 
her  mind  faded  away.  She  returned  Bessie's 
caresses,  and  they  talked  together,  for  a  little 
while,  in  the  old  strain  of  perfect  confidence 
and  sisterly  love.  At  last,  however,  the  sus 
pense  in  which  she  was,  and  the  intense  de 
sire  she  felt  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  this 
secret,  brought  her  back  to  the  purpose  for 
which  she  had  come. 

"  Bessie,  dearest,"  said  she,  "  you  know 
what  I  have  had  to  bear  of  late,  and  will 
make  allowances  for  me,  I  am  sure,  if  I  ap 
peared  to  be  cold  toward  you.  If  I  were  to 
tell  you  all,  you  will  wonder  how  I  endured  it 
at  all.  And  I  will  tell  you  all  some  day  when 
I  feel  able  to  speak  calmly  about  it.  But 
there  is  something  now  that  I  want  to  ask 
about,  and  the  person  I  wish  to  ask  is  your 
self." 

"  Me  ? "  said  Bessie,  opening  her  eyes 
wide. 

"  I  am  in  great  trouble,  dear,"  said  Inez, 
"  apart  from  the  sorrow  I  feel  about  poor 
papa,  and  I  want  you  to  help  me." 

"  Sorrow  —  what !  more  sorrow  ?  "  cried 
Bessie,  in  mournful  accents,  "  Oh,  my  own 
poor,  dear  darling,  unfortunate  Inez,  what 
can  have  happened  ?  Oh,  how  sorry  I  am, 
and  oh,  how  glad  I  shall  be  if  I  can  do  any 
thing  for  you  ! " 

"It  was  something  that  poor  papa  said 
on  his  death-bed — the  last  words  he  spoke 
He  said  them  to  me,  and  they  trouble  me 
awfully.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  them 
dear,  and  so  I  cannot  tell  you  now,  but  I  wil 
soon.  He  could  not  have  meant  what  he 
said.  It  must  have  been  his  delirium." 

"So  it  was,  surely,"  said  Bessie,  vehe 
mently,  in  her  slightly  Irish  way.  "Nevei 
could  he  have  said  any  thing  at  all — at  all — 
that  would  hurt  your  feelings  if  it  hadn' 
been  for  his  delirium.  They  tell  me  he  wai 


ut  of  his  mind  entirely,  poor  dear  !  So  don't 
hink  any  thing  more  about  it,  but  try  to  be 
our  own  self  again,  Inez  jewel." 

"  I  hope  it  was  so,  I'm  sure,"  said  Inez, 
adly,  "but  I  don't  know,  and  I  can't  help 
my  own  feelings.  Still,  there  is  something 
,hat  I  want  to  ask  from  you.  Part  of  my 
roubles  arise  out  of  something  which  poor 
>apa  said  about  some  person  whose  name  is 
Alordaunt." 

As  Inez  said  this  she  looked  steadily  at 
Bessie.  Bessie  returned  her  look  calmly. 

"  Mordaunt  1 "  she  repeated,  with  a  slight 
smile.  "Sure  that's  my  name.  How  very, 
very  funny,  Inez  darling !  Was  it  me  he 
meant,  jewel  ?  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  why  you 
should  worry  about  that  ?  " 

"Would  you  have  any  objection  to  tell 
me  a  little  about  your  papa,  Bessie  dear  ?  I 
want  so  much  to  know.  If  it  is  a  painful 
subject,  you  need  not  answer,  and  I  beg  par 
don  for  asking." 

"  Objection  ?  Why,  my  poor,  dear  Inez, 
not  the  least  in  life.  I'd  be  only  too  happy, 
darling,  to  do  that  same  if  I  only  could.  But 
it's  little  or  nothing  I  know  about  that  same. 
Poor  dear,  darling  papa  died  when  I  was 
very,  very  little,  and  I  have  only  heard  from 
others  what  I  know  about  him,  and  that's  lit 
tle  enough,  so  it  is.  Unfortunately,  all  that 
I  know  is  told  in  a  few  words,  dear.  His 
name  was  Bernal  Mordaunt,  and  he  died 
when  I  was  a  bit  of  a  child,  not  more  than 
three  years  old.  He  was  in  some  foreign 
country  when  he  died,  and  I  really  do  not 
know  even  the  name  of  the  place.  But  a 
child  only  one  year  old  cannot  be  supposed 
to  know  much,  can  she,  Inez  dearest  ?  " 

The  last  part  of  this  Inez  had  not  heard. 
She  had  heard  the  name  Bernal  Mordaunt, 
and  no  more.  She  had  heard  Bessie  quiet 
ly  claim  him  as  her  father.  After  that,  she 
heard  nothing.  Her  heart  throbbed  wildly, 
and  her  mind  was  confused  with  a  whirl  of 
fancies  that  came  to  her. 

"  So  your  father's  name  was  Bernal  Mor 
daunt?"  said  she,  at  length,  in  a  steady 
voice. 

"  Dear  Inez  !  how  very,  very  sad  you  look ! 
Why,  what  possible  interest  can  you  take  in 
poor  papa  ?  "  said  Bessie,  in  a  sympathizing 
tone. 

"  Do  you  remember  any  thing  about  your 
mamma,  Bessie  ?  "  asked  Inez  again,  after  a 
pause. 


MAKING  INQUIRIES. 


"My  darling  mamma  died  before  I  was  ( 
born,"  said  Bessie,  in  a  childish  voice.     "I  j 
never  saw  her  in  my  life.     I  have  heard  th 
poor  papa's  grief  for  poor  darling   mamm 
was  so  violent  that  he  ran  away  from   th 
country,  and  died  of  a  broken  heart.     But 
never  saw  either  of  them.     Sure  and  it's  my 
self  would  be  the  happy  girl  if  I  had  som 
recollection  of  a  papa  or  mamma  to  look  bac 
upon ;  but  I  never,  never  hud  one,  Inez  da 
ling.     That  is  the  reason  why  I  never  spok 
about  them  to  you  before.     It's  so  very,  ver 
sad,  dear." 

Again  Bessie's  words  made  the  heart  o 
Inez  throb  with  strange  vehemence.  Ever 
word  seemed  to  assure  her  of  that  which  sh 
half  dreaded  to  know.  In  this  unknown  Ber 
nal  Mordaunt,  and  in  that  beautiful  lady  tha 
bore  her  own  name,  Inez,  she  saw  thos 
whom  Mr.  Wyverne's  words  made  her  own 
parents ;  in  the  two  portraits  of  these  chil 
dren,  she  saw  "  Clara  "  and  "  Inez."  She  saw 
no  "  Bessie."  What  place  was  there  for  a 
"  Bessie  "  in  that  little  family  group  ?  Yet 
Bessie's  words  seemed  to  indicate  this.  One 
thing  alone  made  it  seem  impossible,  and  that 
was  the  statement  that  her  mother  had  died 
at  her  birth,  or,  as  she  expressed  it,  "be 


fore  she  was  born."  Could  she  have  been 
younger  child,  whose  portrait  had  never  been 
taken,  and  never  included  among  the  others  ? 
But  that  was  impossible.  If  she  herself  were 
the  "Inez"  of  the  portrait,  then  Bessie  could 
not  possibly  belong  to  that  family.  Bessie 
was,  in  fact,  several  months  older  than  her 
self,  and  there  was  no  place  for  her.  On  the 
other  hand,  Bessie  could  not  be  the  child  of 
the  portrait,  for,  apart  from  the  difference  in 
the  names,  which  might  be  passed  over,  there 
was  an  insuperable  difficulty  in  the  faces 


Bessie  was   a 


That   child   was  a   brunette, 
golden-haired  blonde. 

^These  thoughts  passed  through  her  mind 
while  Bessie  was  speaking,  and,  as  she  ended, 
Inez  asked  her,  in  the  same  tone  as  be 
fore: 

"  Were  there  any  others  of  you  ?  " 

"  There  were,  surely,"  said  Bessie,  "  as 
I've  heard,  though  I  never  saw  them.  Two 
sisters  older  than  me.  I  was  the  baby,  and 
— oh,  Inez  dear,  I'm  so  fond  of  babies.  Are 
you  not  fond  of  them,  Inez  dearest  ?  " 

Bessie  raised  her  large  blue  eyes  to  her 
friend's  face  as  she  said  this,  and  "looked  at 
her  with  a  loving  smile. 


"Sisters?"  said  Inez,  without  noticing 
her  question — "  sisters,  and  older  than  you  ? 
Why,  I  never  knew  that  you  had  sisters." 

"  And  no  wonder,"  said  Bessie.  "  It  was 
a  sad  world  for  all  of  us  ;  for  my  two  sisters 
died  when  I  was  a  child,  and  it's  only  the 
names  of  them  that  were  left  me.  You  will 
not  wonder  now,  darling,  that  I  have  never 
chosen  to  make  you  my  confidante  about  my 
family,  when  there  is  nothing  but  so  very, 
very  sad  a  story  to  tell.  It's  me  that  never 
could  bear  to  speak  of  that  same." 

"  What  were  their  names  ?  "  asked  Inez. 
"  Their  names  ?  "  said  Bessie,  with  a  long 
si^h.  "  There  were  two,  one  several  years 
older  than  the  other.  The  eldest  one  was 
named  Clara,  and  the  youngest  one  had  the 
same  name  as  you  have,  Inez.  And  isn't  that 
awfully  funny,  Inez  dear?  But  I  believe 
your  dear  mamma  was  some  sort  of  a  relation 
to  my  dear  mamma,  and  that  accounts,  I  sup 
pose,  for  their  both  taking  the  same  name  for 
their  children.  But  my  sister  Inez  must 
have  been  about  three  years  older  than  me. 
Sure  it's  a  mournful  subject,  and  I  can't  bear 
to  think  of  it  at  all  at  all.  Do  you  know,  Inez 
darling,  it's  really  very  hard  for  you  to  talk 
about  this  ?  You  really  almost  make  me  cry. 
And  I  hate  crying  so." 

Saying  this,  Bessie  turned  her  eyes  on 
Inez,  who  saw  that  those  culm,  blue  orbs  were 
moist  with  tears. 

"They  all  died— all,"  said  Bessie,  mourn- 
ully.     "My  sisters  died  while  I  was  a  child, 
and  I  never  saw  them.     My  dear  grandpapa 
ook  charge  of  me,  and  I  was  brought  up  in 
Ireland,  you  know,  till  your  poor  dear  papa 
ent  for  me,  three  years  ago." 

All  this  Inez  heard  with  the  same  feelings 
of  perplexity.     If  Bessie  was  right,  then  she 
aw  that    her   own   suspicions  were   utterly 
wrong;  but,  on  the  contrary,  if  she  was  right, 
ben  how  could  Bessie  have  ever  grown  up 
with  such  an  unaccountable  belief  as  this? 
The  Inez  of  the  portrait  might  not  be  herself, 
fter  all.     What  foundation  had  she  for  her 
uspicions  but  a  sick  man's  delirious  words  ? 
he  was  younger  than  Bessie,  instead  of  being 
Ider.     If  Bessie  was  right,  then  she  was  en- 
aged  in  a  foolish  task,  and  heaping  up  end- 
ess  trouble  for  herself  to  no  purpose  wh.it- 
ver. 

Still,  Inez  had,  after  all,  so  strong  a  belief 
lat  her  suspicions  were  well  founded,  that 
ic  was  unable  to  dismiss  them  as  yet. 


58 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


There  were  other  things  in  addition  to  this 
about  which  she  wished  to  ask  Bessie. 

"  Bessie,  dear,"  said  she,  "  you  remember 
that  letter  that  you  picked  up  in  the  hotel  at 
Villeneuve  and  handed  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  darling." 

"  You  read  it." 

At  this  Bessie's  fair  face  flushed  scarlet, 
and  the  bright  and  sunny  smile  that  usually 
irradiated  it  was  chased  away  by  a  frown,  and 
a  sudden  flush  swept  over  it.  But  this  passed 
instantly,  and  Bessie  said  : 

"  Well,  really,  Inez  darling,  I  hardly  knew 
what  I  was  doing,  I  was  so  terrified,  and  I 
wondered  so  much  what  had  happened,  and  I 
was  so  fond  of  your  poor  dear  papa,  that  I 
read  it  without  thinking  that  it  was  his  let 
ter.  I  would  not  have  dreamed  of  reading  it 
though,  Inez  dearest,  but  the  writing  was  so 
familiar  that  I  thought  it  was  no  harm.  It 
was  my  own  dear  grandpapa's  writing,  and  I 
thought  it  was  something  about  me.  Sure 
and  anybody  would  have  done  that  same,  and 
never  have  given  it  a  thought." 

At  this  new  piece  of  information,  Inez 
started  in  fresh  amazement. 

"  Your  grandpapa ! "  she  exclaimed. 

"True  for  you,  Inez  dearest,  my  own 
darling  grandpapa ;  and  wouldn't  you  have 
read  a  letter  written  by  your  grandpapa  if 
you  had  been  so  excited,  and  so  frightened, 
and  didn't  know  what  you  were  doing  ?  And, 
after  all,  there  wasn't  much  in  it  at  all,  at 
all.  Really,  I  could  not  make  it  out — not  one 
single  word,  dear.  Why  your  poor  dear  papa 
should  feel  shocked  at  such  a  letter  is  quite 
beyond  me — quite.  And,  really,  now  that 
same  I  don't  believe  at  all,  and  I  don't  think 
the  letter  had  any  thing  to  do  with  it." 

"  What  is  your  grandpapa's  name,  Bes 
sie?"  asked  Inez,  anxiously. 

"  Kevin  Magrath,  sure,"  said  Bessie. 

"  It  is  a  very  unusual  name,"  said  Inez ; 
"  I  never  heard  it  before." 

"Well,  Inez  dear,"  said  Bessie,  "poor 
grandpapa  is  in — in  trouble — most  of  the 
time — and  I  don't  generally  introduce  his 
name  into  conversation.  He's  never  done 
the  least  harm  in  life — poor,  dear  grandpapa ! 
— but  the  world  is  hard  on  him." 

"  Do  you  know  what  he  meant  by  those 
letters  B.  M.  ?  " 

"  Surely  not.     How  should  I  know  that  ?  " 

"  He  said  that  B.  M.  is  alive,  and  had  come 
back." 


"  Did  he  ?  Really,  the  woi-ds  had  no 
meaning  to  me,  Inez  dearest,  and  I  have 
forgotten  all  about  them." 

"  Don't  you  think  that  B.  M.  means  Ber- 
nal  Mordaunt  ?  " 

"  Bcrnal  Mordaunt  ?  Why,  that's  poor 
papa!  Why,  Inez  dearest,  what  can  you 
possibly  mean  ?  Sure  and  it's  joking  you  are ! " 

"  Didn't  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

"Never,  till  this  moment,"  said  Bessie, 
solemnly.  "  How  should  I  ?  I  read  the  let 
ter  without  understanding  one  single  word. 
It  seemed  to  me  like  one  of  the  puzzles  one 
reads  in  the  magazines.  But  what  do  you 
mean  by  all  this  about  my  poor  papa,  Inez 
dear?  Really,  do  you  know  you  make  me 
feel  quite  timid  ?  It's  like  raising  the  dead 
—so  it  is." 

"  And  this  Kevin  Magrath  is  your  grand 
papa  ?  "  said  Inez,  in  whom  this  information 
had  created  unbounded  amazement. 

"Yes,"  said  Bessie,  "he  is  my  own  dear 
grandpapa.  He's  awfully  fond  of  me,  too ; 
but  he  has  his  trials.  I'm  afraid  he's  not 
very  happy.  He's  so  funny,  too !  I'm  sure 
I  sometimes  wonder  how  he  can  ever  have 
been  my  dear  mamma's  papa ;  but  he  is  so, 
entirely." 

"  Your  mamma's  name  was  Magrath, 
then  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  it  must  have  been,"  said 
Bessie,  simply.  "  But,  Inez  dearest,  are  you 
almost  through  ?  Do  you  know  you  really 
make  me  feel  nervous  ?  I  never  was  cross- 
questioned  so  in  my  life,  and,  if  you  don't 
stop  soon,  you  will  positively  make  me  feel 
quite  cross  with  you.  I  never  saw  dear 
mamma,  you  know ;  and  I  hate  to  be  remind 
ed  of  my  lone  and  lorn  condition," 

"Forgive  me,  Bessie  dearest,"  said  Inez, 
who  saw  that  Bessie's  patience  was  giving 
way.  "  I  will  only  ask  you  one  or  two  ques 
tions  more,  and  only  about  that  letter.  Do 
you  remember  noticing  a  tone  of  alarm  run 
ning  through  your  grandpapa's  letter  ?  " 

"  Never  a  bit,"  said  Bessie.  "  Was  there 
any  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Inez,  "  very  much  alarm. 
The  writer  seemed  frightened  at  discovering 
that  B.  M.  was  alive." 

"  And  where's  the  wonder  ?  Sure,  I  my 
self  would  be  frightened  out  of  my  senses  at 
that  same.  Now,  wouldn't  you,  Inez  dear 
est — wouldn't  you  yourself  be  frightened? 
Now,  wouldn't  you— say?" 


MRS.  KLEIN. 


59 


"Of  course;  but,  then,  this  letter  spoke 
of  some  danger  that  my  papa  would  incur,  if 
this  *  B.  M.'  found  him.  He  advised  him  to 
run  away — to  Russia,  or  America." 

"Did  he?"  said  Bessie,  with  a  bright 
smile.  "Haha!  the  omadhawn!  Sure  and 
it's  just  like  him,  for  all  the  world !  He's 
always  running  away  and  hiding  himself. 
Sure  and  I  can  explain  it  all  to  you,  Inez 
jewel.  This  B.  M.  is  some  creditor." 

"  Creditor ! " 

"  Why  not  ?  Don't  I  know  all  about  it  ? 
Isn't  poor,  dear  grandpapa  head  over  heels  in 
debt,  and  always  in  hiding  ?  Isn't  he  afraid 
to  show  his  nose  in  England  ?  Sure  and  he 
is.  And  so,  you  see,  Inez  dearest,  that  must 
be  what  he  meant.  Your  poor,  dear  papa 
must  have  owed  money  to  this  B.  M.,  and, 
of  course,  this  B.  M.  is  going,  or  was  going, 
to  dun  him.  Oh,  if  you  had  been  brought 
up  in  Ireland,  you'd  understand  all  about  that 
same.  'Deed  and  you  would.  So  now,  my 
poor  Inez,  don't  worry  yourself  about  noth 
ing.  Don't  think  and  talk  about  things  like 
these.  I  cannot  imagine  what  in  the  wide 
world  has  come  over  you.  You  really  shock 
me.  And  all  about  a  stupid  letter  about  some 
stupid  money !  " 

With  these  words,  Bessie  wound  her  arms 
fondly  about  Inez ;  and,  when  Inez  opened 
her  mouth  to  ask  some  new  question,  she 
playfully  put  her  hand  against  it,  and  de 
clared  she  would  not  let  her  speak  unless  she 
promised  not  to  say  any  thing  more  about 
this  subject. 

"  You  are  talking  stupid  genealogy,  Inez 
dear,"  said  she,  "and  I  positively  will  not 
listen  to  another  word.  I  certainly  shall  be 
angry  if  you  continue  your  cross-questions  a 
moment  longer.  They  make  my  head  ache ; 
and  I  think  you  are  very,  very  unkind,  and  I 
wouldn't  treat  you  so — so  I  wouldn't." 

Inez  found  it  impossible  to  resist  Bessie, 
and,  though  there  were  many  other  things 
which  she  wished  to  ask,  she  was  compelled 
to  leave  them,  for  the  present  at  least. 

But  what  she  had  learned  from  Bessie  did 
not  in  the  slightest  degree  quell  her  curiosity, 
or  satisfy  her  doubts,  or  soothe  her  suspi 
cions.  Still  there  rang  in  her  ears  the  dying 
words  of  Mr.  Wyverne — "  You  are  not  my 
daughter !  "—and  still  the  images  of  the 
three  portraits  floated  before  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MRS.    KLEIN. 

THE  conversation  with  Bessie  left  Inez  in 
a  great  state  of  doubt  and  hesitation.  As 
far  as  she  could  see,  Bessie  had  been  perfect 
ly  frank  and  unembarrassed  in  all  her  state 
ments.  Those  statements  were  all  as  plain 
and  simple  as  they  possibly  could  be.  And 
yet  they  were  completely  at  variance  with  the 
suspicion  which  she  had  been  cherishing  ever 
since  Mr.  Wyverne's  death. 

Bessie's  story  was  plain,  simple,  and  intel 
ligible.  It  was  also  very  plausible,  and,  in 
deed,  far  more  credible  than  the  theory  of 
her  own  parentage,  which  she  had  raised  out 
of  Mr.  Wyverne's  declaration. 

It  was  this : 

Bernal  Mordaunt  had  a  wife  and  two  chil 
dren — Clara  and  Inez.  To  these  he  was  ten 
derly  attached. 

At  the  birth  of  the  third  child  Mrs.  Mor 
daunt  had  died. 

This  third  child  was  Bessie,  and  she  was 
three  years  younger  than  the  "  Inez  "  of  the 
portrait. 

But  Bernal  Mordaunt's  grief  at  the  death 
of  his  wife  was  so  excessive  that  he  could  en 
dure  his  home  no  longer.  He  left  the  coun 
try,  and  soon  after  died. 

Mrs.  Mordaunt's  father  now  took  these 
children  under  his  care.  He  was  this  same 
Kevin  Magrath  who  had  written  that  ill- 
omened  letter.  Judging  from  Bessie's  feel 
ings  toward  him  he  must  have  been  a  kind- 
hearted  man.  He  took  care  of  these  orphan 
children.  T\vo  of  them  died,  and  Bessie 
Mordaunt  was  left  alone,  the  last  of  that 
family. 

Now,  in  some  way,  her  father  seemed  to 
be  brought  into  connection  with  these  Mor- 
daunts. 

How? 

No  doubt  as  guardian,  executor,  or  agent. 
Perhaps,  in  his  management  of  Bessie's  prop 
erty,  he  had  done  her  some  injustice. 

And  now,  out  of  all  this,  quick  as  light 
ning  there  flashed  across  her  mind  what 
might  be  the  true  theory  of  all  this  trouble. 

Her  father  might  have  mistaken  her  for 
JBessie  ! 

No  sooner  had  she  thought  of  this  than 
an  immense  feeling  of  relief  came  to  her.  It 


60 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


seemed  so  very  probable,  so  perfectly  nat 
ural. 

There  had  evidently  been  some  sorrow  on 
her  father's  soul,  arising  from  the  conscious 
ness  of  wrong  done.  It  was  this  that  gave 
to  him  that  remorse  which  he  felt,  and  of 
which  he  spoke.  To  whom,  then,  had  this 
wrong  been  done  of  which  he  spoke  ? 

There  was  no  doubt,  both  from  the  letter 
of  Kevin  Magrath  and  from  Mr.  Wyverne's 
own  words,  that  this  wrong  had  been  done  to 
Bernal  Mordaunt.  Bessie  herself  had  indi 
cated  the  nature  of  that  wrong.  Her  grand 
father,  she  said,  was  in  debt,  and  perhaps  Mr. 
Wyverne,  too.  It  may  have  been  that  these 
two  men  had  in  some  way  mismanaged  the 
estate  of  Bernal  Mordaunt,  and  for  this  cause 
they  dreaded  him  when  he  reappeared.  Bes 
sie,  then,  was  the  one  whom  her  father  had 
wronged.  In  his  illness  his  delirious  fancies 
brought  all  his  crimes  back.  She,  his  own 
daughter,  appeared  to  him  like  the  injured 
Bessie,  and  thus  it  was  that  as  she  came  near 
he  had  repelled  her  with  those  words,  "  You 
are  not  my  daughter!"  It  was  not  herself, 
then,  but  Bessie,  from  whom  he  had  shrunk  ; 
and  it  was  not  hers  but  Bessie's  hand  that  he 
had  placed  in  the  hand  of  Dr.  Blake.  Per 
haps  all  along  he  had  misunderstood  Dr. 
Blake's  attentions;  had  thought  they  were 
given  to  Bessie ;  had  encouraged  them  for 
this  reason  ;  and,  finally,  had  at  last  sought 
to  make  some  recompense  to  her  by  giving 
her  to  be  the  wife  of  an  honorable  man. 

It  was  not  without  a  sharp  pang  that  this 
last  thought  came  to  Inez,  but  no  sooner  had 
Dr.  Blake  occurred  to  her  mind  than  the 
thought  and  the  pang  passed,  and  away  in  an 
instant  went  the  soundness  and  stability  of 
Bessie's  theory. 

For  with  the  thought  of  Dr.  Blake  came 
the  recollection  that  Mr.  Wyverne  had  claimed 
him  as  his  son.  How  should  she  explain 
this  ? 

Again,  in  Kevin  Magrath's  letter,  he  had 
laid  particular  stress,  not  on  Bessie,  but  or 
Inez  !  How  should  she  explain  that  ? 

Again,  and  above  all,  how  should  she  ex 
plain  those  mysterious  memories  of  her  child 
hood ;  how  account  for  her  dim  recognitior 
of  that  mother's  face  in  the  portrait— tha 
elder  sister  ?  To  do  so  was  impossible.  Hat 
they  lived  at  her  father's  house  when  she  wa 
a  child,  and  had  she  thus  become  acquainte< 
with  those  haunting  faces?  It  might  be  so 


et  to  her  they  seemed  more,  far  more  than 
leasant  acquaintances.  What  was  the  secret 
ause  of  that  deep  emotion  which  she  felt  at 
tie  sight  of  them  ?  Whence  arose  that  pro- 
ound  yearning  of  her  soul  over  that  mother 
nd  that  elder  sister,  as  over  dear  ones  once 
oved  and  lost? 

It  was  evident  to  Inez  that  the  past  must 
>e  looked  into  by  means  of  the  help  of  others 
>esides  Bessie.  Among  the  domestics  of  the 
lousehold  could  any  one  be  found  whose 
memory  reached  back  far  enough  .to  make 
im  or  her  of  any  use  in  the  present  in 
quiry  ? 

No  sooner  did  this  question  occur  to  Inez 
han  she  at  once  thought  of  an  old  domestic 
vho  occupied  a  very  peculiar  position  in  the 
house.  Mrs.  Klein  had  once  been  house- 
seeper,  but,  having  fallen  into  a  species  of 
what  may  charitably  be  termed  decrepitude, 
with  which,  however,  gin  had  something  to 
do,  the  active  duties  of  her  position  were 
landed  over  to  another,  and  Mrs.  Klein  was 
pensioned  off.  Mrs.  Klein's  present  residence 
was  well  known  to  Inez,  for  she  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  paying  frequent  visits  to  the  re 
tired  potentate,  and  she  now  determined  to 
seek  her  without  delay.  Accordingly  the  car 
riage  was  ordered,  and,  after  about  an  hour's 
drive,  Inez  found  herself  before  the  humble 
abode  of  her  old  friend. 

It  was  about  two  o'clock,  and  Mrs.  Klein 
was  at  home.  Indeed,  the  first  glance  showed 
Inez  that  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  her 
to  have  left  her  home ;  for  there  was  in  her 
gait  an  unsteadiness,  and  in  her  eye  a  rolling, 
watery  leer,  which  would  infallibly  have 
drawn  down  upon  her  the  attentions  of  the 
police  had  she  ventured  forth  to  any  distance 
from  her  humble  cot.  She  was  about  sixty 
years  of  age,  dressed  in  black,  with  a  frilled 
cap  on  her  head,  and  a  bunch  of  keys  dan 
gling  from  her  waist — these  last  the  emblems 
of  her  lost  sovereignty,  but  still  lovingly  re 
tained  from  the  force  of  habit.  She  was  stout 
and  decidedly  "beery"  in  her  aspect  and 
manner,  and  there  was  a  fuddled  unctuousness 
of  voice  in  the  way  in  which  she  greeted  Inez, 
and  a  maudlin  tearfulness  of  eye  which  showed 
that  her  naturally  keen  sensibilities  had  been 
subjected  to  the  impulse  of  some  gentle 
stimulant. 

"Which  it's  welcome  you  truly  air  this 
day,  my  own  dear  child,  Miss  Hiny,"  she  be- 
gan,  in  a  whimpering  voice.  "An'  me  think- 


MRS.   KLEIN". 


61 


in'  that  I'd  die  without  the  sight  of  your 
sweet  face,  an'  left  'ere  alone  in  the  cold 
world  that  leaves  me  to  pine  and  languitch, 
an'  no  one  left  to  love  me  now,  an'  you  too 
may  forget,  as  the  good  book  says  !  An'  so 
he's  dead  an'  gone,  an'  the  grass  waves  over 
he,  which  he  was  ever  a  kind  friend  to  me, 
an'  a  brave  soger,  well  used  to  war's  alarms, 
though  he  did  pension  me  off,  an'  me  as 
hactyve  an'  as  nimble  as  a  kitten,  an'  never 
'ad  a  day's  illness  in  all  my  life,  since  I  was 
a  child  with  the  measles,  an'  managed  that 
'ouse  like  clock-work  nigh  on  twenty  year, 
which  he  says  there  was  never  any  other 
'ousekeeper  that  could  'old  a  candle,  and  'im 
dead  an'  gone  below  ! " 

And  with  this  rather  equivocal  conclusion 
to  her  somewhat  incoherent  address  Mrs. 
Klein  drew  forth  an  enormous  bandanna  hand 
kerchief,  and  mopped  away  vigorously  at  her 
eyes. 

Inez  took  a  seat,  and  waited  patiently  for 
Mrs.  Klein  to  overcome  her  emotions.  At 
length,  the  old  lady  drew  a  long  sigh,  and, 
putting  out  her  hand,  took  an  old  teapot 
from  the  table  near  her,  and  poured  from 
this  into  a  tumbler  a  colorless  liquid  that 
looked  like  water,  but  whose  pungent  odor 
announced  the  presence  of  gin. 

"Which,  after  bereavement  and  melan- 
cholick,"  she  said,  "  there's  nothink  so  'ole- 
some  an'  'ealthy  as  a  drop  of  this,  took,  Miss 
Hiny,  only  as  a  medicink,  an'  to  stimmylate 
the  mind  an'  hease  the  'art,  which  I  allus 
does  before  I  hever  goes  to  my  blessed  bed  at 
night,  an'  would  'umbly  recommend  the  same, 
with  my  'umble  dooty  an'  best  wishes,  for  you 
an'  yours,  an'  'opin'  your  dear  benefactor  left 
you  comfortable,  which  we  shall  not  see  his 
like  again  in  this  vale  of  tears,  an'  'e  was  as 
good  as  a  father  to  you — " 

The  old  lady's  booziness  and  twaddle  had 
begun  to  discourage  Inez,  who  saw  no  chance 
of  getting  any  intelligible  information  from 
such  a  fuddled  brain  ;  but  suddenly,  in  the 
midst  of  this,  the  last  remark  of  Mrs.  Klein 
startled  her,  and  she  began  to  think  that 
perhaps,  by  humoring  the  drunken  creature's 
fancy,  she  might  get  more  out  of  her  than 
she  would  be  able  to  do  if  she  were  sober. 
For,  in  the  old  days,  she  had  never  given  ut 
terance  to  any  thing  that  came  so  near  to 
Inez's  suspicions  as  this.  In  her  later  days, 
she  had  been  occasionally  a  little  excited  by 
gin,  but  never  so  much  as  to  be  off  her  guard. 
6 


"Yes,"  chimed  in  Inez,  anxious  to  see 
how  much  Mrs.  Klein  would  tell,  "  he  was  as 
good  as  a  father;  he  couldn't  have  done 
more  if  he  had  really  been  my  father." 

"  Which  there  never  was  a  truer  word,  an' 
'im  with  'is  own  son  lost  to  'im,  as  a  body 
may  say,  an'  the  wife  of  'is  boosom  turned 
agin  'im,  an'  you  not  'is  hown,  an'  in  this 
world  men  'ave  'ard  'arts  when  they  '%ve  to 
bring  up  them  as  is  not  their  hown— all  but 
'im,  as  never  spoke  of  you  but  with  lovin' 
kindness  an'  tender  mussies,  an'  ever  shall 
be.  '  Mrs.  Klein,'  says  he,  *  you  'ave  a  lovink 
'art,  an'  I  hintrust  this  'ere  lone  babe  of  the 
woods  to  you  to  brink  hup  as  my  hown.  Call 
her  by  my  hown  name;  treat  'er  as  your 
young  missus  ;  be  virtoous,  an  'you  will  be 
'appy — to  be  brunk  hup  in  Wisdom's  ways, 
which  is  ways  of  pleasantness,  an'  hall  her 
paths  is  paths  hof  peace.'  Which  them's  'is 
hown  words,  Miss  Hiny,  as  hever  was,  an'  'im 
a-confidink  in  me,  as  knoo  'ow  fully  'e  might 
confide.  An',  '  Don't  you  hever  tell  'er,'  'e 
says,  *  but  what  she's  my  hown,  for  hit'll  be 
hall  the  same  to  'er  in  the  hend ;  an'  to  be 
brunk  up  soberly,  righteously,  an'  piously, 
hall  the  days  hof  her  life,  an'  has  my  hown 
daughter — Miss  Wyverne— hany  think  to  the 
contrairy  'ereof  in  hany  wise  notwithstand 
ing'  " 

"  How  old  was  I  then  ?  "  asked  Inez,  in  a 
tremulous  voice. 

These  wandering  words  were  certainly 
confirming  her  worst  fears,  and  bringing 
aack  all  her  worst  suspicions. 

"Ay,  'ow  hold,"  the  old  creature  went 
chattering  on — "  which  it's  a  mere  child  you 
was,  not  hover  fower  year,  an'  not  as  much  ; 
an'  there  was  your  sister,  a  fine  girl  of  twelve, 
that  was  sent  to  the  nunnery  in  France — " 

"France!"  exclaimed  Inez,  in  deep  ex 
citement. 

"Oh,  I  know  it;  I  remember  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Klein,  positively.  "An'  me  'earin'  all 
about  the  proposules,  an'  she  a-cryink  like  a 
babby  at  leavink  of  you.  But  I  comforted 
'er,  an'  I  says :  *  Cheer  up,  little  Clara  ;  you 
shall  see  Hiny  soon,  if  so  be  as  you  be  a  good 
girl,  an'  go  hoff  quiet.'  An'  so  she  bade  a 
long  adoo  to  things  below." 

"  Was  Mrs.  Mordaunt  there  ? "  asked 
Inez. 

Her  heart  was  throbbing  painfully,  and 
she  could  speak  with  difficulty.  She  asked 
this  question  and  named  this  name  so  as  to 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


test  her  suspicions  to  the  uttermost,  and  put 
them  beyond  a  doubt. 

"  Oh,  ay,  ay !  an'  so  you  remember  the 
name — poor  lady ! — which  'er  name  I  remem 
ber  well,  though  never  seeink  'er,  beink  dead 
an'  gone  before,  an'  you  two  being  horphans 
in  the  cold  world  below.  An'  my  poor  'art 
bled  for  you  two  in  your  dissolute  state,  which 
your,  ma  beink  dead,  an'  your  pa  beink  fled 
far  away  into  strange  lands,  an'  me  'earin' 
afterward  that  'e  died  in  heggsile — which  Mr. 
Wyverne  'e  stood  for'ard,  an'  says  to  me : 
'  That  child  shall  be  mine,  to  be  brunk  up  in 
the  lup  of  lugsury,  an'  you  be  kind  an'  faith 
ful,  an'  name  your  hown  reward.'  But  I  ups 
an'  says :  '  My  reward,  sir,  axin'  your  'umble 
pardink  for  bein'  so  bold,  his  to  be  a  father 
to  the  fatherless  an'  a  mother  to  the  mother 
less.'  An'  he  says:  'You  are  right,  an'  I 
commend  'er  to  your  faithful  boosom.'  " 

"  Why  did  Mrs.  Wyverne  leave  her  hus 
band  ?  "  asked  Inez  once  more. 

"  Which  'e  wus  allus  a  kind  'usband  an'  a 
faithful  father,  an'  nobody  can  deny — no,  not 
heven  'er  as  left  him  to  die  hof  a  broken  'art 
— an'  ever  'ad  a  kind  word  for  hall  the  'ouse- 
'old ;  an'  took  'er  son  an'  'is — Basil — 'im  be- 
in'  not  hover  six  year  hold,  an'  in  long  curls, 
the  be-e-e-eautiful  child !  An'  'e  says  to  me, 
'Mrs.  Klein,'  an'  I  says,  'Sir,'  an'  'e  says, 
'They've  gone,'  an'  I  says,  'Who?'  an'  'e 
says,  with  a  'alf  whimper,  '  My  wife,'  'e  says, 
'  an'  my  son — my  boy — my  Basil ! '  An'  I 
says,  '  Sir,'  says  I,  '  'opin'  no  hoffence,  an' 
axin'  your  pardink — they'll  come  back.'  An' 
'e  says,  '  Never ;  she's  too  hobstinate,  an'  'as 
bid  a  heternal  haydoo.'  Says  I,  'Sir,  what 
for?  Isn't  this  'ere  their  proper  'ome  ? '  Says 
'e,  '  We've  'ad  a  fight,  an'  she's  gone.'  Says 
I,  *  About  what  ?  '  Says  'e,  '  About  'er,  about 
little  Hiny.'  An'  'im  so  kind  an'  lovin'  that 
'e  treated  'er  like  a  man,  an'  never  heven  ad 
vertised  her,  nor  sood  for  a  separation,  nor 
nothink ;  an'  me  hexpectin',  day  hafter  day 
an'  year  hafter  year,  that  she'd  relent  an' 
come  'ome ;  but  relent  she  did  not,  an'  come 
'ome  she  did  never,  but  'id  'erself  close,  an1 
'as  never  been  'eard  hof  from  that  day  to  this 
blessed  momink.  Which  'er  'usband  bore 
the  cruel  blow  like  a  hangel,  an'  never  re 
pined,  but  showed  a  Christiang  fortitood,  an' 
forguv  'is  henemies,  an'  'im  a  good  'usband  to 
'er,  never  a-comin'  'ome  drunk  an'  beatin'  'er 
about  the  'ead  with  a  broom-'andle,  as  is  the 
case  with  many  wives,  but  kind  and  true  as 


'e  promised  an'  vowed  in  his  marriage-bond 
before  the  haltar.  Which  if  it's  the  last 
word  I  hever  spake,  I'd  go  to  that  woman,  an' 
look 'er  in  the  heyes,  an'  I'd  say  unto  'er: 
'  My  dear,  axin'  your  'umble  pardink,  I'd  ad- 
wise  you  to  pack  hup  your  duds  an'  Go  'ome, 
for  hif  you  don't  hit's  a-goink  to  be  the  wusa 
for  you  an'  your  boy;  which  'ere  is  Miss  Hiny 
a-twinink  'erself  hayround  'is  'art,  an'  a 
daughter  to  'im,  'avin'  lost  one  father  to  find 
a  father  in  'im,  an'  bein'  deservink  of  it,  too, 
as  a  warm-'arted  girl,  an'  as  dear  to  me  as  a 
child  of  my  hown.'  " 

Inez  had  heard  enough.  She  had  no 
heart  to  ask  any  further  questions.  One 
thing  she  had  learned  which  was  altogether 
new,  and  that  was,  that  this  sister  Clara  had 
been  sent  to  France — to  a  "nunnery,"  as  Mrs. 
Klein  said.  And  there,  thought  Inez,  she  must 
have  died.  Deeply  was  she  touched  by  Mrs. 
Klein's  remarks  about  Clara's  love  for  the 
little  sister  from  whom  she  had  to  part,  and 
her  heart  was  filled  with  unutterable  regrets 
and  unutterable  longings  after  that  lost  dear 
one,  who  loved  her  once  so  fondly. 

Mrs.  Klein  now,  being  no  longer  directed 
by  any  leading  questions,  went  off  in  a  series 
of  remarks  of  a  highly-desultory  character. 
She  began  by  pressing  a  half- tumbler  of  gin 
upon  Inez,  and  wept  freely  because  Inez  re 
fused.  She  then,  still  weeping,  swallowed  it 
herself.  After  this  she  began  a  lamentation 
over  the  wickedness  of  the  world  and  the  de 
pravity  of  the  human  heart,  as  exemplified  in 
some  recent  bad  bargains  which  she  had 
made  in  her  favorite  beverage.  She  urged 
Inez  to  take  her  back,  to  live  with  her  as 
companion  or  chaperon.  Finally,  she  pro 
duced  an  old  clay  pipe  and  lighted  it. 

Inez  had  scarcely  heard  a  word  for  some 
time  past.  During  Mrs.  Klein's  desultory 
rambling  she  had  been  buried  in  her  own  re 
flections,  but  out  of  these  she  was  suddenly 
and  violently  drawn  by  a  strangling  and 
choking  sensation,  caused  by  the  smoke  of 
the  particularly  villanous  tobacco  in  Mrs. 
Klein's  pipe.  She  hastily  rose,  and,  without 
a  word,  rushed  to  the  door,  leaving  Mrs. 
Klein  talking  to  the  walls  of  her  house. 

About  the  truth  of  Mrs.  Klein's  state 
ments  Inez  had  not  the  slightest  doubt. 
Had  she  been  perfectly  sober,  it  might  have 
been  possible  to  suspect  her  of  acting  up  to 
some  plan  devised  long  ago  in  Mr.  Wyverne'a 
life.  As  it  was,  such  a  suspicion  was  ira- 


INEZ  RECEIVES  A  LETTER. 


63 


possible.  The  circumstances  under  which 
this  had  been  said,  and  the  way  in  which  she 
had  said  il,  all  combined  to  show  Inez  that  it 
must  be  true. 

In  this  state  of  mind  she  drove  home. 

And  now  Bessie  met  her.  She  rushed 
down  the  stairs,  and,  clasping  her  in  her 
arms,  kissed  her,  and  reproached  her  lov 
ingly  for  going  out  alone. 

"  Sure  and  you'll  never  be  your  own  old 
self  again,  Inez  darling,"  she  exclaimed.  "  I 
had  begun  to  hope  that  you  had  got  over 
your  reserve,  and  reticence,  and  sadness,  and 
solitary  ways,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I 
can't  stand  this  at  all,  at  all.  Really,  Inez 
darling,  you'll  break  my  heart.  Why  should 
you  hold  yourself  aloof  from  me,  and  why 
won't  you  come  back  to  your  old  familiar 
ways,  dear  ?  Positively,  if  you  treat  me  so, 
I  shall  have  to  go  away,  for  I  shall  feel  that 
you  no  longer  HI — lil — love  mum — mum — 
me." 

And  here  Bessie  burst  into  tears. 

Inez  kissed  her,  and  tried  to  soothe  her, 
and  felt  real  self-reproach  at  having  inflicted 
so  much  pain  on  this  innocent  child. 

"  It  was  only  some  foolish  business  of 
mine,"  said  she. 

"But  you  have  no  business  to  have  any 
foolish  business  at  all,"  said  Bessie,  fretfully. 
"  You  have  no  right  to  wound  me  so.  It  was 
hard  enough  before,  but,  after  we  made  friends 
Again,  it  was  very,  very  cruel  in  you,  Inez 
clear.  It's  myself  that's  been  the  miserable 
girl  this  day,  and  it's  fairly  heart-broken  that 
I  am  with  you  ;  and  you  won't  do  so  again, 
darling,  now  will  you  ?  You  will  not  be  so 
cold  and  unkind,  now  will  you,  Inez  dear 
est?" 

Inez  promised  not  to  offend  again,  where 
upon  Bessie  grew  calm,  and  the  two  spent 
the  rest  of  the  day  together  as  much  on  their 
old  terras  as  was  possible,  when  the  heart  of 
one  of  them  was  wrung  with  the  remembrance 
of  that  which  she  had  heard,  and  when  her 
mind  was  perplexed  with  the  problem  of  her 
life,  and  the  image  of  the  gentle  sister  Clara 
was  ever  floating  before  her  imagination. 

She  retired  early  that  night,  and  at  last 
found  herself  alone. 

Here  there  was  one  thought  that  perplexed 
her. 

This  was  Bessie  Mordaunt — this  girl  who 
bore  that  name,  and  gave  that  account  of  her 
parentage.  | 


Inez  had  now  not  a  doubt  left  that  sho 
was,  in  very  truth,  Inez  Mordaunt,  daughter 
of  Bernal  Mordaunt. 

She  had  now  not  the  slightest  doubt  that 
Bessie's  account  of  herself  was  utterly  false. 

Did  Bessie  know  this  ?  Impossible.  Bes 
sie  would  not  deceive.  Bessie  herself  must 
be  deceived. 

But  how  ? 

Evidently  Bessie  must  have  been  brought 
up  all  her  life  in  this  belief.  She  stated  it 
so  calmly  and  so  simply,  and  it  agreed  so 
perfectly  with  her  mode  of  thought  and  her 
position  in  this  house,  past  and  present,  that 
she  must  believe  in  what  she  said.  Yet  it 
was  all  false,  and  Bessie  had  been  carefully 
brought  up  to  believe  it  as  true. 

How  could  this  have  happened  ?  Who 
could  have  instilled  into  her  so  long  and  so 
carefully  all  these  lies?  What  could  have 
been  the  motive  of  it  ?  Could  it  have  been 
Mr.  Wyverne?  If  so,  why  had  he  done  it  V 
Or  could  it  have  been  that  man  who  had 
brought  Bessie  up — her  "dear  grandpapa," 
Kevin  Magrath  ? 

That  was  the  question. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

INEZ   RECEIVES   A   LETTER 

THAT  she  had  been  all  along  the  victim  of 
some  dark  plot,  Inez  now  felt  confident ;  but 
whether  Mr.  Wyverne  was  the  originator  of 
the  plot  or  not,  she  could  not  tell.  There 
were  many  other  things  also  which  perplexed 
her.  What  wa^s  the  position  of  Bessie? 
Taking  her  honesty,  good  faith,  and  perfect 
innocence  for  granted,  what  was  her  place 
in  this  involved  net-work  of  circumstances  ? 
Was  she  too  a  victim  ?  or  was  she  the  protegee 
of  the  unknown  conspirators?  Who  was 
her  "  grandpapa  ?  "  What  part  had  he  borne 
iu  all  this?  What  was  his  attitude  with 
regard  to  her?  and  what  had  been  his  atti 
tude  toward  Mr.  Wyverne  ?  Above  all,  what 
was  the  motive  of  the  conspiracy  ?  That  it 
was  a  conspiracy  of  no  common  kind,  she  felt 
sure.  It  had  begun  long  ago,  and  had  been 
carried  on  for  years.  What  was  the  purpose 
of  these  two  confederates— Wyverne  and  Ma 
grath  ?  What  end  did  they  propose  ?  Was 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


it  revenge  ?  or  was  it  avarice  ?  Was  there 
any  thing  of  hers  that  they  might  gain  ? 

Of  course,  these  questions  could  not  be 
answered,  and  this  last  one  was  the  greatest 
puzzle  of  all,  for  it  was  impossible  for  her  to 
imagine  what  could  have  been  the  cause  for 
which  these  men  had  framed  so  deep  a  plot, 
and  elaborated  it  so  patiently,  and  carried  it 
out  so  carefully. 

Bernal  Mordaunt  was  her  father.  She 
now  believed  this  without  the  slightest  linger 
ing  doubt. 

Bernal  Mordaunt  was  a  priest.  What  was 
the  meaning  of  this  ?  This  was  a  point  that 
she  could  not  comprehend.  That  he  was  a 
Roman  Catholic  and  not  an  Anglican  priest, 
she  knew  from  the  allusion  in  the  letter  to 
his  "  ecclesiastical  business  "  at  Rome.  What 
was  the  meaning  of  that  ?  Was  this,  then,  the 
cause  why  her  parentage  had  been  so  care 
fully  concealed  ?  Was  this  the  cause  of  his 
flight — his  neglect  of  his  children  ?  Was  it 
the  affection  of  Mr.  Wyverne,  seeking  to  save 
her  from  shame,  that  had  surrounded  her 
with  all  this  mystery  ?  Was  this  the  reason 
that  her  sister  Clara  had  been  sent  to  a 
nunnery,  and  herself  brought  up  as  Mr. 
Wy verne's  daughter  ?  Was  this  so  ?  and,  if 
so,  wae  it  not  possible  that  Mrs.  Wyverne 
may  have  quarrelled  with  her  husband  on  the 
ground  that  he  was  receiving  a  child  of  shame 
into  his  household,  and  had  taken  herself  and 
her  son  from  the  presence  of  such  pollution  ? 
Could  this  be  so  ? 

This  ?  Impossible.  It  was  not  of  affec 
tion  and  self-sacrifice  that  Mr  Wyverne  spoke 
on  his  dying-bed.  It  was  of  repentance  for 
crime.  It  was  remorse.  It  was  the  agoniz 
ing  desire  to  make  an  atonement  for  wrongs 
which  he  had  done  to  her  father. 

That  father  had  come  to  him  there  at  that 
bedside — the  injured  man  had  seen  the  of 
fender,  with  what  result  she  had  heard  from 
Dr.  Blake.  Of  the  real  horror  of  that  meet 
ing,  however,  she  knew  nothing,  for  Blake 
had  kept  that  a  profound  secret  from  her. 
She  had  merely  understood  from  him  that 
Mr.  Wyverne  had  died  the  moment  the  priest 
had  entered  the  room,  and  that  not  one  word 
had  passed  between  them. 

There  were  various  questions,  consequent 
upon  her  knowledge  of  the  fact  of  this  meet- 
Ing,  which  served  to  perplex  her  mind  still 
further. 

Had  her  father  recognized  Mr.  Wyverne  ? 


She  thought  not,  and  for  various  reasons.  In 
the  first  place,  she  remembered  the  fearful 
change  that  had  taken  place  in  Mr.  Wyverne's 
face,  and  judged,  rightly  enough,  that  such  a 
change  would  make  all  recognition  impossi 
ble,  especially  on  the  part  of  one  who  had  not 
seen  him  for  fourteen  years. 

If  he  had  not  recognized  him,  had  he  at 
least  known  his  name  ? 

This  also  she  thought  impossible.  If  he 
had  heard  so  uncommon  a  name  as  Wyverne 
mentioned,  particularly  the  full  name  Henni- 
gar  Wyverne,  he  would  have  been  struck  by 
it  at  once.  If  so,  he  would  not  have  gone 
away  so  hurriedly  after  that  death — making 
no  inquiries  after  those  whose  guardian  Hen- 
nigar  Wyverne  had  been.  No ;  the  priest  had 
probably  arrived  late,  as  Blake  said,  from  a 
hurried  journey  ;  had  been  summoned  almost 
from  his  bed  to  the  dying  man ;  and  then, 
without  recognizing  him,  or  learning  his 
name,  had  continued  his  hurried  journey. 

The  question  now  arose  whether  he  had 
not  found  out  since  who  this  man  was.  He 
must  have  done  so.  The  notice  of  Hennigar 
Wyverne's  death  had  been  published,  and 
would  of  course  meet  her  father's  eyes.  He 
would  then  learn  who  it  was  that  had  died  so 
suddenly. 

And  what  then?  What,  in  fact,  would  be 
his  action?  The  letter  of  Kevin  Magrath 
stated  that  her  father  was  at  Rome,  and  was 
going  to  England  to  see  Wyverne.  About 
what  ?  The  answer  was  given  in  the  letter, 
in  part  at  least :  "  Inez  must  be  got  rid  of." 
It  was  for  her,  then,  that  her  father  was  com 
ing.  She  was  in  part,  at  least,  the  object  of 
his  journey,  and  of  his  business  in  England. 

Would  the  death  of  Hennigar  Wyverne, 
now  no  doubt  well  known  to  her  father,  make 
any  difference  in  his  movements  ?  Would  he 
still  come  to  seek  after  her?  What  if  lies 
had  reached  him,  such  as  those  amid  which 
Bessie  had  been  brought  up  ?  What  if  he 
had  heard  and  believed  that  his  daughters, 
Clara  and  Inez,  were  dead  long  ago  ?  Could 
she  expect  that  he  would  ever  search  after 
her?  Wyverne  being  dead,  what  business 
would  he  have  in  England?  On  the  other 
hand,  how  should  she  find  him,  or  effect  com 
munication  with  him  in  any  way  ? 

Of  the  two'  plotters  to  whom  she  could 
trace  the  great  conspiracy  which  had  enfolded 
her  and  Bessie  in  its  grasp  from  earliest 
childhood,  one  was  dead.  But  the  other  re- 


INEZ   RECEIVES  A  LETTER. 


65 


What  would  he  do?  Would  he 
give  up,  confess  all,  and  set  things  straight 
before  the  world  ?  or  would  he  continue  to 
carry  on  his  work  ?  He  was  Bessie's  "  grand 
papa."  He  was,  no  doubt,  using  her  as  a 
tool  for  his  own  purposes.  Would  he  still 
try  to  baffle  Bernal  Mordaunt  ? 

Kevin  Magrath,  in  the  letter  which  he 
had  written  to  Hennigar  Wy verne,  had  spoken 
about  Bernal  Mordaunt  with  undisguised  alarm ; 
but  from  that  letter  it  was  Wyverne  who  had 
chief  cause  for  fear.  So  formidable  an  ene 
my  was  Bernal  Mordaunt,  that  flight  or  pre 
tended  death  were  the  only  ways  by  which 
the  terrors  of  his  presence  could  be  evaded. 
Was  the  danger  which  had  been  so  dreadful 
to  Wyverne  less  dreadful  to  Kevin  Ma 
grath  ? 

Not  one  of  these  questions  could  she  an 
swer.  The  one  which  was  most  important 
to  her  was  about  her  father's  possible  move 
ments.  Did  he  know  that  she  was  alive  ? 
Would  he  come  to  England  ? 

Since  that  memorable  death  at  Yilleneuve 
a  fortnight  had  passed  away.  No  signs  had 
presented  themselves  as  yet  of  his  appearance. 
This  did  not  look  like  haste  on  his  part.  The 
delay  seemed  unnecessary.  It  looked  as 
though  he  did  not  know  of  her  existence.  It 
looked  as  though  he  had  heard  of  Wyverne's 
death,  and  had  given  up  his  design  of  going 
to  England. 

After  breakfast  that  day,  a  letter  was 
handed  to  Inez. 

She  looked  at  it  in  amazement;  it  bore 
the  postmark  of  Paris.  Who  could  write 
her  from  Paris  ?  There  was  only  one — Dr. 
Blake.  But  why  should  he  write  ?  Perhaps 
it  was  something  with  reference  to  Mr.  Wy 
verne,  or  perhaps  something  the  thought  of 
which  excited  her  indignation.  Could  it  be 
possible  ?  No,  it  could  not  be  ;  he  would  not 
dare,  at  such  a  time,  to  write  to  her  a  con 
fession  of  his  feelings. 

With  this  thought  she  left  the  table,  and 
retired  to  her  room  to  read  the  letter.  There 
was  no  reason  why  she  should  not  think  so. 
Dr.  Blake  lived  at  Paris,  or  lodged  there  for 
the  present ;  she  had  no  other  acquaintance 
there  ;  and  she  did  not  know  enough  of  his 
handwriting  to  judge  of  the  writer  of  the  let 
ter  by  the  address. 

But  the  first  words  of  the  letter  at  once 
put  this  notion  to  flight.  On  opening  it,  she 
read  the  following : 


"  MY  DEAREST  CHILD  : 

"  By  this  time  you  know  all,  and  therefore 
will  not  be  surprised  at  finding  that  there  is 
one  alive  who  has  a  right  to  call  you  by  that 
tender  name.  Returning  home  after  a  long 
absence,  during  which  you  have  been  taught 
to  believe  me  dead,  or  rather  have  been  kept 
in  ignorance  of  me  altogether,  my  only  busi 
ness  now  is  to  fold  my  beloved  daughter  in 
my  arms,  and  save  her  from  the  machinations 
of  those  who  so  long  have  had  her  in  their 
power. 

"  It  was  my  astonishing  fate  to  meet  Mr. 
Hennigar  Wyverne  at  Villeneuve.  I  was  on 
my  way  from  Rome  to  England  with  no  other 
purpose  than  to  see  that  very  man,  and  re- 
ceive  from  him  an  account  of  those  dear  ones 
whom  I  had  intrusted  to  him  years  before. 
At  that  inn,  just  after  a  short  night's  rest,  I 
was  requested  to  visit  a  dying  man.  I  at  once 
went  to  the  room,  and,  to  my  utter  amaze 
ment,  found  before  me  the  very  man  I  sought. 
Fearfully  changed  though  he  was,  I  recognized 
him ;  for  beneath  the  mere  outline  of  features 
there  is  always  something  more,  which,  as 
long  as  life  lasts,  betrays  the  man.  And  here 
the  recognition  was  mutual. 

"  Although  he  was  evidently  surprised,  yet 
my  presence  was,  after  all,  not  altogether  un 
accountable  to  him  ;  for  he  had  heard  of  my 
return,  as  he  told  me  himself,  and  the  dread 
of  meeting  with  me  had  brought  him  to  this. 
I  will  not  tell  you  now  all  the  particulars  of 
that  interview,  when  the  soul  of  the  dying 
man,  already  hovering  on  the  verge  of  the 
eternal  world,  and  going  to  its  last  account, 
lingered  for  a  moment  to  try  to  atone  for  the 
crimes  which  he  had  committed,  to  try  to 
obtain  forgiveness  from  the  man  whom  he 
had  wronged,  before  passing  into  the  pres 
ence  of  his  Maker.  I  need  only  say  now  that 
he  told  all,  without  reservation.  All — all 
was  confessed.  I  have  the  consolation  of 
knowing  that  I  was  not  harsh  to  my  false 
friend,  nor  deaf  to  his  appeal  for  mercy,  but 
forgave  him  all,  freely;  and,  while  as  man  I 
forgave  the  injuries  that  he  had  done  to  man, 
as  priest  I  gave  him  absolution  for  the  sins 
which  he  had  committed  against  God. 

"  In  the  midst  of  the  tremendous  agita 
tions  of  that  unparalleled  hour,  it  never  oc 
curred  to  the  poor  dying  man  to  mention  that 
you  were  in  the  hotel,  and  close  by  us,  even 
though  much  was  said  about  you.  He  in 
formed  me  that  he  had  already  told  you  the 


66 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


truth,  though  not  all.  As  it  did  not  occur  to 
him  to  tell  me  of  your  presence,  it  never  oc 
curred  to  me  to  suspect  it.  I  had  thought 
of  you  always  as  a  child,  and  imagined  you 
at  boarding-school  somewhere.  It  was  not 
until  I  came  here  that  I  learned  where  you 
really  were  then,  and  where  you  are  now. 

"  As  it  was,  I  should  have  remained  in 
Villenetive  long  enough,  at  least,  to  perform 
the  last,  sad  funeral-rites  over  one  who,  in 
spite  of  his  treachery,  had  once  been  my  most 
intimate  friend.  But  I  could  not ;  business 
of  an  urgent  nature  required  my  immediate 
presence  here  in  Paris,  and  I  had  no  remedy 
but  to  hurry  forward. 

"  But  the  emotions  called  up  by  that  meet 
ing  have  been  too  much  for  me.  I  am  not  so 
young,  dear  child,  as  I  once  was,  and  I  have 
suffered  very  much  in  body  and  in  mind  dur 
ing  the  years  of  my  absence.  Do  not  be 
alarmed,  my  own  child  Inez,  if  I  now  inform 
you  that  I  am  unable  to  leave  my  chamber. 
I  have  delayed  writing  to  you  thus  far  from 
the  hope  that  I  might  go  in  person,  but  the 
prospect  of  this  is  too  remote  for  my  impa 
tience.  Do  not  imagine  by  this  that  my  ill 
ness  is  at  all  dangerous.  It  is  not ;  it  is  se 
rious—that  is  all.  But  there  is  one  thing 
which,  more  than  all  drugs  and  remedies, 
will  give  me  new  life,  and  raise  me  up  from 
my  bed  ;  and  that  is  the  sight  of  my  own  be 
loved  child — sweet  memorial  of  my  sainted 
wife,  whose  image  is  still  enshrined  in  my 
heart,  for  whom  my  love  can  never  die.  Come, 
then,  my  daughter  —  come  to  your  father  ! 
Come,  my  sweet  Inez,  my  only  treasure  in 
life !  I  long  and  yearn  to  look  upon  your 
face.  Do  not  delay.  Do  not  stop  to  make 
any  preparations.  Do  not  even  think  of 
money.  You  will  find  every  thing  with  me 
that  you  may  need.  Come !  I  shall  expect 
you  to  leave  on  the  very  day  when  you  re 
ceive  this,  and  I  shall  count  the  hours  till  you 
reach  me.  But  I  fear  I  am  too  urgent.  I 
shall  give  you  one  day,  then,  dearest  daugh 
ter  ;  nnd  after  that  I  shall  look  for  you.  My 
address  is  No.  123  Rue  de  la  Ferroniere, 
Paris.  A  carriage  will  be  at  the  station,  and 
my  servants  will  be  ready.  I  shall  send  some 
friend  to  receive  you. 

"  I  can  write  no  more  now,  as  I  feel  ex 
hausted,  and  must  reserve  any  more  until  you 
come.  Au  revoir,  my  dearest  child  !  Make 
haste  ;  for  my  strength  is  failing,  and  you  are 
my  last  hope.  I  embrace  you  with  all  my 


heart,  and  wait   for   you,  my  own  precious 
child,  with  indescribable  longing. 
"  Your  affectionate  father, 

"  BERNAL  MORDAUNT." 

The  handwriting  of  this  letter  was  dif 
ferent  from  that  of  the  address.  In  the  ad 
dress  it  was  directed  in  a  round,  bold,  flowing 
hand ;  but  in  the  letter  itself  it  was  written 
in  a  tremulous  hand,  with  frequent  breaks, 
and  words  written  indistinctly.  It  looked  as 
though  it  had  been  written  by  some  one  who 
was  feeble  and  ill,  and  had  scarce  strength 
enough  to  conclude  his  task ;  for  toward  the 
close  it  became  very  much  less  legible,  as  if, 
having  finished  it,  the  writer  had  been  too 
exhausted  to  do  more,  but  had  to  commission 
another  to  write  the  address. 

There  were  certain  circumstances  in  this 
letter  which  at  another  time  would  have  be 
wildered  Inez  exceedingly.  One  was  the 
story  of  the  conversation  between  Bernal 
Mordaunt  and  Hennigar  Wyverne,  followed 
by  extreme  unction.  Dr.  Blake's  account 
was  altogether  the  opposite.  He  had  said 
positively  that  not  one  word  had  been  spoken 
by  either ;  but  that,  as  the  priest  came  in, 
Wyverne  died.  Here  was  a  discrepancy  so 
immense  that  each  version  destroyed  the 
other  utterly.  The  other  difficulty  lay  in  the 
fact  that  the  handwriting  of  Bernal  Mordaunt 
was  not,  in  the  slightest  degree,  like  the  writ 
ing  of  that  Bernal  Mordaunt  whose  short  note 
to  Hennigar  Wyverne,  accompanying  the  por 
trait,  lay  in  the  casket.  This  in  itself  was  a 
slight  thing,  and  could  easily  be  accounted  for 
on  the  ground  of  weakness,  change  wrought 
by  a  new  mode  of  life  and  increasing  years, 
or  the  nervous  irregularity  of  a  hand  unused 
of  late  years  to  hold  the  pen;  but  still,  in 
connection  with  the  first-mentioned  fact,  it 
was  significant. 

Both  of  these  things,  and  others,  also, 
Inez  certainly  noticed,  but  failed  to  lay  any 
stress  upon  them  whatever.  She  was,  in 
deed,  quite  incapable  now  of  weighing  any 
thing  calmly.  That  letter  had  produced  upon 
her  so  overwhelming  an  effect,  that  there  was 
only  one  ide;v  in  her  mind — her  father  ill  in  Paris 
— seriously  ill — longing  to  see  her — calling  to 
her  to  come  to  him — counting  the  hours — her 
father  looking  upon  her  as  his  only  hope  in 
life— looking  to  her  for  strength  to  draw  him 
up  from  his  bed  of  languishing — her  father, 
with  his  unutterable  love  for  her,  and  yearn- 


FATHER   MAGRATH. 


67 


ing  over  her.  How  piteous  seemed  to  her 
those  letters,  traced  with  so  feeble  a  baud, 
growing  fainter  and  feebler  as  they  ap 
proached  the  end  of  the  sheet !  How  pathetic 
that  allusion  to  her  mother — how  resistless 
that  call  to  her  to  come — how  tender  and  sweet 
that  loving  urgency,  which  could  scarce  allow 
one  day  for  making  her  preparations  to  travel ! 
No  idea  of  refusing  entered  her  mind. 
Such  a  call  must  be  obeyed.  She  must  go. 
Besides,  it  was  the  thing  that  she  herself  now 
longed  most  of  all  to  do.  She  began,  then, 
at  once  to  pack  up  a  few  things.  She  had 
money  enough  in  her  purse  to  take  her  to 
Paris.  She  needed  no  more  than  enough  to 
take  her  to  his  bedside. 

One  thought  of  Bessie  came  to  her,  and  a 
slight  feeling  of  sadness  at  thus  being  com 
pelled  to  quit  her  so  abruptly.  She  wondered, 
also,  what  excuse  she  should  make.  She  could 
not  show  her  the  letter.  Though  her  own 
frank  nature  would  have  prompted  such  a 
course,  her  consideration  for  Bessie  restrained 
her.  It  would  only  bewilder  her  and  give  her 
pain.  Bernal  Mordaunt  she  believed  to  be 
her  own  father.  If  she  was  ever  to  be  unde 
ceived,  the  explanation  would  have  to  come 
from  those  who  had  deceived  her — from  her 
"  grandpapa,"  Kevin  Magrath.  On  the  other 
hand,  Inez  could  not  stoop  to  deceit  of  any 
kind,  and  therefore  was  unable  to  make  up 
any  plausible  pretext  for  her  sudden  depart 
ure.  In  the  end  she  solved  this  particular 
difficulty  by  telling  Bessie  that  she  had  to  go 
to  Paris  immediately  on  "  business." 

This  intelligence  Bessie  received  in  a 
much  better  manner  than  Inez  had  antici 
pated.  She  appeared  startled,  but  said  noth 
ing  against  it.  She  was  mournful,  and  affec 
tionate,  and  very  pathetic. 

"  Oh,  I  knew  it,"  she  said,  sadly.  "  I  saw 
it  was  coming  to  this.  I  knew,  Inez  dearest, 
that  you  were  changed  and  didn't  love  me 
any  longer.  But  there's  no  use  in  life  to  say 
any  thing,  for,  when  love  grows  cold,  there's 
not  the  least  use  of  complaining  at  all,  at  all. 
It's  a  changed  nature  you're  seeming  to  have 
just  now  entirely,  Inez  jewel,  but  I  hope  you'll 
be  your  own  dear  self  again  before  very  long. 
And  won't  you  promise  to  write  me,  Inez  dar 
ling,  as  often  as  you  can,  for  I  shall  be  per 
fectly  frantic  till  I  hear  from  you  ?  It  seems 
awfully  bold  and  brave  in  you,  so  it  does,  to 
go  off  travelling  this  way.  I'm  sure  I  should 
never  be  able  to  do  it — never." 


Inez  found  that  she  could  not  leave  till 
the  next  day.  Her  preparations,  however, 
were  very  simple.  She  took  Saunders  with 
her,  and  a  footman  was  to  accompany  her  as 
far  as  Southampton. 

When  Inez  prepared  to  start,  she  found, 
to  her  surprise,  that  Bessie  was  dressed  for  a 
journey  also. 

"You  need  not  think  you're  going  to  get 
rid  of  me  so  easily,"  said  Bessie.  "  It's  my 
self  that'll  be  the  lone  girl  when  you  go,  and 
what  in  the  wide  world  I'll  be  after  doing 
with  myself  without  you  I  don't  know,  so  I 
don't.  And  so  I  mean  to  stay  with  you  till 
the  very  last  moment,  Inez  darling,  and  I'm 
going  all  the  way  to  Southampton.  I  shall 
bid  you  good-by  on  the  pier,  and  I'm  sure  I 
think  you  might  be  just  a  little  bit  affection- 
ate  to-day,  dear." 

Inez  was  deeply  touched  by  this  mark  of 
Bessie's  affection,  and  embraced  her,  and 
kissed  her  fondly.  They  then  drove  to  the 
station. 

During  the  drive  to  Southampton  Bessie 
was  loving,  tender,  pathetic,  and  occasionally 
lachrymose.  She  appeared  to  cling  to  Inez 
with  so  much  tenderness,  that  Inez  felt  her 
self  drawn  to  the  fair  young  girl  more  than 
ever,  and  wondered  how  one  like  her  would 
bear  the  blow  of  being  told  that  her  name 
and  her  life  were  a  deceit.  She  was  glad 
that  it  did  not  fall  to  her  lot  to  tell  Bessie. 

On  the  pier  at  Southampton  they  parted. 
Inez  went  with  Saunders,  and  Bessie,  after 
waiting  on  the  wharf  and  waving  her  hand 
kerchief  till  she  could  no  longer  distinguish 
Inez,  returned  to  London. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

FATHER     MAGRATH. 

As  Inez,  with  her  maid,  Saunders,  landed 
upon  the  pier  at  Havre,  several  persons  were 
passing  down  on  their  way  to  another  steamer 
which  was  just  about  to  leave  for  Southamp 
ton.  Among  these  was  one  man,  and,  if  it 
lad  been  possible  for  her  to  recognize  that 
one  man  upon  that  spot,  the  recognition 
would  have  changed  altogether  the  progress 
of  circumstances,  and  have  snatched  her  from 
he  fate  upon  which  she  was  blindly  rushing. 
But  such  a  recognition  was  impossible,  and 
[nez  passed  on  her  way — away  from  the  one 


68 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


man  who  could  have  solved  every  mystery, 
and  removed  every  difficulty — away  from  the 
man  who  could  have  saved  her,  and  on  to  the 
station  to  take  the  train  for  Paris.  He  was 
dressed  as  a  priest.  He  was  a  man  of  medi 
um  stature,  with  a  very  remarkable  face,  the 
expression  of  which  was  so  strangely  com 
pounded  of  force  and  gentleness,  of  energy 
and  meekness,  of  resolute  will  and  sadness, 
that  the  eye  of  the  most  casual  observer  was 
irresistibly  drawn  to  take  a  longer  observa 
tion.  He  carried  in  one  hand  some  wraps, 
and  in  the  other  an  old  leather  valise,  worn 
and  battered  as  though  it  had  accompanied 
its  owner  over  thousands  of  miles  of  journey- 
ings,  and  bearing  upon  one  end,  in  white 
painted  letters,  the  mark  B.  M. 

Following  this  man  was  one  whose  tall 
figure,  stern  and  strongly-marked  features, 
and  shaggy  mustache,  revealed  the  person  of 
Kane  Hellmuth.  This  journey  had  been  the 
result  of  his  recent  conversation  with  Blake. 
The  mystery  of  his  apparition  had  now  come 
to  be  a  leading  idea  in  his  mind,  and,  as  his 
friend  had  hinted  at  the  possibility  that  his 
wife  might  not  have  died,  he  had  resolved 
upon  this  journey  so  as  to  satisfy  his  mind 
once  for  all.  As  Mr.  Wyverne,  her  guardian, 
was  dead,  that  resource  was  taken  away  from 
him,  and  he  could  think  of  no  one  to  whom 
he  could  apply  for  information  except  that 
Miss  Mordaunt,  to  whom  also  Mr.  Wyverne 
had  been  guardian.  It  was,  therefore,  to  no 
less  a  person  than  Miss  Bessie  that  Kane 
Hellmuth  was  making  this  journey. 

As  the  steamer  was  leaving  the  pier,  the 
priest  stood  on  the  deck  along  with  the  other 
passengers,  and  Kane  Hellmuth  found  in  this 
man  a  mysterious  attraction  that  riveted  his 
gaze  in  spite  of  himself.  The  last  man  was 
he  of  all  men  to  feel  or  to  yield  to,  if  he  did 
feel,  any  impulse  of  idle  curiosity;  yet,  in  this 
case,  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  check  himself, 
he  found  his  eyes,  no  matter  how  often  he 
would  force  them  to  look  elsewhere,  irresisti 
bly  drawn  back  again  to  fix  themselves  upon 
that  sun-browned  face,  with  the  deep,  earnest 
glance,  the  resolute  purpose,  the  indescribable 
pathos — that  face  which,  in  its  expression, 
and  in  the  traces  of  the  years,  showed  such  a 
record.  It  was  a  record  of  a  life  of  no  com 
mon  kind — a  life  of  struggle  and  of  suffering 
—an  heroic  life,  yet  at  the  same  time  a  life 
which  must  have  been  not  without  some  ful 
filment  of  the  holiest  duties  of  that  office 


which  his  garb  indicated — the  office  of  a 
Christian  priest.  Kane  Hellmuth  thus  felt 
his  eyes  attracted,  and  with  his  eyes  his 
heart ;  but  there  was  no  opportunity  of  mak 
ing  the  acquaintance  of  this  singular  man. 
Kane  Hellmuth  was  naturally  of  a  reserved 
disposition;  the  priest,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  too  much  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts 
to  be  conscious  of  the  interest  which  he  had 
awakened  in  the  mind  of  another,  and  so 
these  two,  who  might  have  found  much  in 
common  if  they  had  become  acquainted,  passed 
on  their  different  ways,  without  exchanging 
any  word  with  one  another.  After  leaving 
the  harbor  the  priest  retired,  and  was  seen  no 
more ;  and  Kane  Hellmuth,  who  felt  no  de 
sire  to  rest,  and  no  capability  of  obtaining  it 
if  he  had  desired  it,  paced  the  deck  for  hours. 
Arriving  at  Southampton,  he  saw  the  priest 
on  landing,  and  then  lost  sight  of  him  in  the 
bustle  and  confusion  of  the  train  for  London. 

Kane  Hellmuth  found  out  the  location  of 
the  house  of  the  late  Mr.  Wyverne  from  the 
directory,  and  went  there  as  soon  as  possible. 
It  was  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

To  his  immense  disappointment,  he 
learned  that  Miss  Mordaunt  was  not  at  home, 
and,  upon  further  and  more  persistent  inquiry, 
found  that  she  was  not  in  town.  Upon  still 
more  urgent  inquiry  as  to  her  movements, 
John  Thomas,  with  whom  he  had  been  speak 
ing,  thought  that  it  could  be  no  other  than  a 
lover  who  could  be  so  persistent ;  and,  though 
Kane  Hellmuth's  appearance  was  not  that  of 
the  one  whom  John  Thomas  might  imagine 
as  a  suitor  for  one  like  Miss  Bessie,  at  the 
same  time  John  Thomas's  heart  was  not  with 
out  some  sentiment  of  its  own,  and  he  thought 
that  such  a  visitor  should  not  be  dismissed 
too  hastily.  Se  he  went  into  the  house  to 
make  some  inquiries  before  giving  any  final 
answer. 

After  a  brief  absence  he  returned,  and  in 
formed  Kane  Hellmuth  that  he  could  find  out 
all  he  wanted  from  Father  Magrath,  who  was 
in  the  house,  and  had  sent  an  invitation  for 
him  to  come  in. 

Tnis  invitation  Kane  Hellmuth  accepted. 
He  entered  the  drawing-room,  and,  in  a  few 
moments,  a  person  came  in  who  introduced 
himself  as  the  Rev.  Mr.  Magrath. 

Father  Magrath,  as  John  Thomas  called 
him,  was  a  man  of  very  remarkable  appear 
ance.  He  was  dressed  in  the  usual  garb  of  a 
priest,  but  his  face  was  not  altogether  in 


FATHER  MAGRATH. 


69 


keeping  with  his  costume.  He  was  apparent 
ly  about  fifty  years  of  age,  of  medium  height 
with  a  frame  whose  nervous  strength  anc 
powerful  development  had  not  yet  felt  the  ad 
vance  of  years.  His  hair  was  curly,  and  only 
slightly  sprinkled  with  gray;  he  had  bright 
keen  eyes,  straight  thin  nose,  and  thin  lips, 
which  were  curved  into  a  good  -  humored 
smile.  The  pervading  expression  of  his  face 
was  one  of  jovial  and  hilarious  good-nature. 
He  wore  spectacles,  which,  however,  did  not 
conceal  the  keen  glitter  of  his  penetrating 
eyes.  His  face  was  unmistakably  Celtic  in 
its  character;  in  fact,  it  was  the  face  of  an 
Irishman,  and,  if  Father  Magrath's  name  had 
been  less  Irish,  his  face  would  of  itself  have 
been  sufficient  to  proclaim  his  nationality. 

A  few  questions  served  to  make  him  ac 
quainted  with  the  fact  that  Kane  Hellmuth 
wished  to  see  Miss  Mordaunt  for  the  sake  of 
making  inquiries  of  her  about  some  family 
matters. 

"Well,"  said  Father  Magrath,  "she's 
away  out  of  town,  and,  what's  more,  she 
won't  be  back  at  all,  at  any  rate  not  to  this 
house  ;  but  I'm  her  father  confissor,  and  any 
quistions  that  ye  may  have  to  ask,  of  a  rayson- 
able  chyaracter,  I'll  be  quite  happy  to  an- 
swer.  Ye'll  have  to  excuse  me  for  the  pris- 
iut,  however,  as  I'm  ingaged  on  some  busi 
ness  of  the  most  prissing  kind,  and  perhaps 
ye  can  neeme  some  hour  whin  I  can  mate  ye." 
Kane  Hellmuth  thanked  him,  and  in 
formed  him  that  his  time  was  limited,  and 
that  the  earliest  possible  meeting  would  be 
most  acceptable. 

"  Sure,  thin,"  said  Father  Magrath,  "  it's 
meself  that's  sorry  that  I  can't  stee  with  ye 
just  now,  and  for  that  matter  any  time 
this  dee,  an'  not  before  to-morrow  ayvenin'. 
Could  ye  make  it  convaynient  to  come  to 
morrow,  in  the  ayvenin',  about  eight  o'clock  ? 
If  so,  I'll  be  happy  to  have  ye.  Come  and 
spind  the  ayvenin',"  he  continued,  in  a  warm 
and  cordial  tone ;  "  I'll  be  alone,  an'  I  assure 
ye  I'll  be  dayloighted  to  have  the  plisure  of 
your  company." 

This  invitation,  so  cordially  extended, 
Kane  Hellmuth  accepted  with  thanks,  and, 
bidding  the  friendly  priest  adieu,  he  retired 
to  pass  the  time  as  best  he  could  till  the  hour 
of  that  meeting  should  arrive. 

Punctual  at  the  hour,  on  the  following 
day,  Kane  Hellmuth  reached  the  house,  and 
was  at  once  shown  into  the  brightly-lighted 


parlor.  Father  Magrath  was  not  at  home, 
but  had  left  a  polite  request  for  his  visitor  to 
wait.  In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  re 
turned,  and,  after  a  slight  delay,  he  entered 
the  room,  and  greeted  his  visitor  with  very 
great  warmth  and  cordiality. 

"  Sure  and  it's  glad  I  am  to  see  you  this 
night,"  said  Father  Magrath.  "  It's  me  that's 
not  fond  of  loneliness  at  all  at  all.  We'll 
make  an  ayveniu'  of  it  between  us,  thin.  I'm 
of  a  convivial  timpirament,  and  I  howld  that 
convivialeetee  is  one  of  the  issinces  of  true 
injoymint  in  loife.  So  we'll  get  up  something. 
Is  it  whiskey  ye  take,  thin,  or  cognac,  or  do 
ye  prifir  woine,  or  eel  ?  For  me  own  part,  I 
always  teek  whiskey." 

"  I  shall  be  happy,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth, 
pleasantly,  "  to  join  you  in  any  drink  that 
may  be  most  agreeable  to  yourself.  I  think 
that  whiskey,  as  you  say,  is  as  good  as  any 
thing." 

"  Sure  and  ye  nivir  spoke  a  truer  word," 
said  Father  Magrath. — "  Jeemes,  my  boy," 
said  he,  turning  to  a  footman,  "  the  whiskey; 
bring  a  daycanter  of  Scotch  and  Irish,  and 
the  hot  wather,  with  the  it  ceteras. — And  ye 
smoke,  too,  of  coorse  ?  '' 
"Yes." 

"  Jeemes,  whin  ye're  about  it,  bring  the 
poipes  and  tobacco,"  added  Father  Magrath. 

At  this  Jeemes  retired,  and  soon  returned 
with  a  tray  upon  which  were  all  the  articles 
which,  in  the  opinion  of  Father  Magrath,  went 
toward  making  up  the  requisites  for  a  pleas 
ant  evening. 

"  Yis,"  said  Father  Magrath,  continuing 
pleasantly,  in  a  half-serious,  half-jocular  way, 
some  remarks  which  he  had  been  making ; 
"  as  I  said,  there  ia  no  plisintniss  in  loife 
without  convivialeetee.  Of  coorse,  I  main 
it  in  a  harrumless  sinse.  It  was  not  in  veen 
that  the  ancients  ileevatid  convivialeetee  to 
the  skois,  and  made  it  one  of  the  occupee- 
ions  of  the  Olympian  dayeeties.  I'm  no  as- 
citic.  Ibelaive  in  harrumliss  and  innocint  joys, 
and  so  I  take  an  occasional  drop  of  somethin' 
warrum,  and  an  odd  whiff  of  the  poipe  at  in- 
thervals.  Now,  here  ye  have  whiskey,  both 
Scotch  and  Irish,  and  I  don't  know  which 
of  them  ye  prefer,  an'  I  don't  know  meself 
for  that  matter.  And  it's  a  moighty  difficult 
thing  to  decoide.  For,  ye  see,  there  are  two 
great  laiding  schools,  if  I  may  use  the  ixpris- 
sion,  of  whiskey,  the  Scotch  and  the  Irish,  or, 
;o  ixpriss  mesilf  more  corrictly,  the  Erse  and 


AN   OPEN    QUESTION. 


the  Gaelic.  Both  schools,  like  both  liquors, 
are  an  imecneetion  of  the  radiant  Celtic  jay- 
nius,  which,  amid  all  its  gifts  to  man,  has  con- 
thributed  this  last  and  this  best  one,  whiskey. 
Now,  there  is  a  very  remarkable  distinction 
between  these  two  outcomes  of  the  Celtic  jay- 
nius.  One,  the  Gaelic,  is  best,  whin  mixed 
with  hot  wather  and  taken  in  the  shape  of 
toddy  ;  the  other,  the  Erse,  naids  not  the  for 
eign  adarrunment  of  hot  wather,  but  stands 
on  its  own  beesis,  as  a  pure,  unmixed  drink, 
which  in  itsilf  is  a  deloight.  There's  a  deep 
philosophical  and  symbolical  mayning  in  this 
which  I  haven't  time  to  go  into  just  now,  but 
I  may  suggist,  in  passing,  that  these  two 
drinks  ixpleen  in  some  misure  the  varying 
jaynius  of  the  rispictive  races,  and  the  in 
ternal  qualeetees  of  the  two  may  be  seen  in 
their  liquors.  The  Irish  is  best  taken  raw, 
without  admixture ;  the  Scotch  is  best,  like 
the  nation,  mixed — that  is  to  say,  as  the  li 
quor  is  best  with  hot  wather,  so  the  Gaelic 
race  in  Scotland  has  achieved  the  most  by  in 
termixing  and  blindingwith  the  Lowland  Sax 
on  populeetion." 

All  this  Father  Magrath  rattled  off  in  a 
quick,  jovial  way,  pouring  out  glasses  for  him 
self  and  his  guest,  so  as  to  allow  themselves 
a  taste  of  each  of  the  liquors  with  which  he 
professed  so  close  an  acquaintance.  He  poured 
out  the  Irish  whiskey  raw  in  two  wine-glass 
es  ;  imt  the  Scotch  whiskey  he  poured  into 
tumblers,  and  manufactured  into  toddy,  -in 
accordance  with  his  own  curious  theory  about 
the  utility  of  mixing  the  Gaelic  race  and  the 
Gaelic  whiskey.  Kane  Hellmuth  tasted  the 
Irish  liquor,  and  then  sipped  the  Scotch  in  its 
form  of  toddy. 

"  Ye'll  be  smoking,"  said  Father  Magrath. 
"  Here  are  two  kinds  of  tobacco,  the  Turkish 
and  the  Virginian.  Which'll  ye  have  ?  Here 
are  poipes,  unless  ye've  brought  yer  own  in  yer 
pocket,  which  I  always  do  myself." 

"  I  have  one,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  pro 
ducing  from  his  pocket  a  short  meerschaum 
in  a  case. 

"  That's  my  way,"  said  Father  Magrath, 
with  a  sigh  of  appreciation.  "  Ye  do  right. 
Your  own  poipe,  and  your  own  silf,  that's  the 
true  smoker's  motto. 

"  I*'s  a  mighty  quare  thing,  too,"  con 
tinued  Father  Magrath,  as  he  filled  his  pipe, 
"  about  this  same  fashun  of  smoking,  and 
this  same  tobacco.  Have  ye  ivir  thought 
where  it  origeenatid  ?  Ye  know  the  popular 


thayory  that  it  came  from  America,  Don't 
believe  a  word  of  it.  Columbus  did  enough, 
for  the  wurruld,  but  it  wasn't  him  or  his  dis 
covery  that  gave  tobacco  to  civeeleezeetion. 

"  Ye  see,"  he  continued,  "  there's  this  dif- 
feecultee  staring  ye  in  the  face.  Ye've  got 
to  account  for  the  uneversaleetee  of  its 
use.  One  quarter  of  the  human  race  use  to 
bacco.  How  has  it  ixtindid  so  widely  in  lies 
thin  fower  cinturies  ?  If  Columbus  is  the 
earliest  date  for  the  use  of  tobacco,  how  did 
it  pinitrate  into  India  and  China  in  that 
toime  ?  Now,  my  thayory  is  this  :  ye  know 
China.  Ye  know  how  all  the  great  invin- 
tions  and  discoveries  of  civeeleezeetion  have 
been  traced  there;  paper,  printing,  pow 
der,  the  mariner's  compass,  and  other  things. 
Now,  I  trace  tobacco  there.  It  wasn't  Amer 
ica  that  gave  tobacco  to  the  wurruld.  It  was 
China.  China  gave  tay.  China  gave  also  to 
bacco.  If  researches  are  made  into  Chinese 
history,  I  don't  doubt  that  it  will  be  found 
that  tobacco  has  been  used  there  for  thou 
sands  of  years  ;  that  Confucius  snuffed  ;  Men- 
cius  chewed ;  that  Fo-hi  smoked ;  and  that 
the  Tartar  nomads,  and  the  Persians,  and  the 
Indians,  received  their  knowledge  of  the 
'  sublime  weed,'  as  Byron  calls  it,  from  China. 
And  I  don't  know  but  that  America  may  have 
received  it  from  China  also,  for  if,  as  some 
suppose,  America  was  peopled  by  the  Mongol 
race,  there  isn't  the  laste  doubt  in  life  but 
that  they  carried  their  poipes  with  thim. 

"Now,  whin  ye  look  at  tobacco,"  con 
tinued  the  priest,  in  an  animated  way,  "  ye 
see  three  grand  classeefeeceetions,  corrispond- 
ing  with  the  three  grand  divisions  which  we 
notice  in  modern  civeeleezeetion.  First,  there 
is  the  Aseeatic ;  it  is  manipuleeted,  and  drugged, 
and  spoiced,  and  made  into  a  luxureeous  ar- 
teeficial  substance  for  the  use  of  the  upper 
classes  of  socieetee.  It  riprisints  Art.  Then 
there  is  the  American,  which  comes  to  us  in 
its  purity.  This  riprisints  Nature.  Finally, 
we  have  the  stuff  made  here  in  the  vareeous 
countries  of  Europe;  giving  a  rivinue  to  the 
governmints,  and  grinding  the  face  of  the 
poor.  This  riprisints  the  Brummagin  system 
of  manufactures,  which  is  swallowing  up  all 
Art,  and  all  Nature,  and  thritening  to  swal 
low  up  modern  civeeleezeetion  itsilf.  But, 
mark  me,  ther'll  be  a  rayaction  among  the 
nations.  The  peoples  will  no  longer  be  op- 
prissed.  Governmints  will  no  longer  tread 
down  humaneetee  in  the  dust.  The  many 


FATHER  MAG  RATH. 


71 


will  at  last  force  their  wants  upon  the  notice 
of  the  few.  The  days  of  the  priveeleged 
classes  are  wellnigh  indid.  If  modern  civ- 
eeleezeetion  means  any  thing  it  means  the 
rights  of  man.  Those  rights  man  will  have. 
First  among  them,  he  will  insist  on  having 
free  tobacco ;  he  will  wrist  this  great  luxury 
of  the  human  race  from  the  grasp  of  tyranni 
cal  governmints,  and  stand  up  in  all  the  dig 
nity  and  grandeur  of  manhood  to  smoke,  or 
to  chew,  or  to  do  any  thing  ilse  to  which  the 
great  heart  of  humanity  may  impil  him." 

Thus  far  Kane  Hellmuth  had  listened  to 
the  priest  without  any  comment.  Just  here, 
however,  partly  because  Father  Magrath 
happened  to  pause,  and  partly  because  he 
was  surprised  at  this  cropping  out  of  revo 
lutionary  sentiments  from  one  who  belonged 
to  the  most  conservative  class  of  mankind, 
he  said : 

"  You  talk  as  though  you  had  embraced 
the  radical  gospel.  Is  radicalism  common 
with  the  priests  of  your  church  ?  " 

Father  Magrath  looked  at  him  with  a  keen 
glance  for  a  few  moments. 

"  Oh,"  said  he  at  last,  "  this  is  only  talk. 
A  man's  banter  never  shows  his  real  sinti- 
mints.  For  my  part,  my  life  and  my  thoughts 
are  all  taken  up  with  a  work  in  which  mod 
ern  civedeezeetion,  and  radicalism,  and  con 
servatism,  and  all  the  other  isms,  niver  inter. 
How  should  they  ?  I'm  an  anteequarian.  I 
gave  up  all  my  time  to  the  most  zilous  antee 
quarian  rasearches.  Most  of  my  life  I  live  at 
Rome.  There  I  come  into  immaydeeate  con 
tact  with  the  Holy  Father,  and  the  whole 
College  of  Kyardeenals.  If  there's  any  one 
man  they  know,  that  man's  Father  Magrath. 
The  ixhumeetions  I've  made,  and  the  explo- 
reetions,  and  the  discoveeries,  would  take  all 
night  to  tell.  Why,  it  was  only  the  other 
day  I  found  at  Civita  Castellano,  in  an  owld 
Aytruscan  tomb,  an  antique  urrun,  and  I've 
got  it  here  now,  and  that  same  urrun  is  worth 
more  thin  its  weight  in  solid  gold,  so  it  is. 
There's  people  that's  offerred  me  more  already, 
and  I  refused.  Me  a  radical !  I'd  like  to  see 
meself  botherin'  me  head  about  modern  poli 
tics.  Put  me  in  Florence  in  the  days  of 
Cosmo  de  Medici,  and  I'll  take  my  stand 
with  one  party  or  the  other  but  this  vulgar 
nineteenth  cintury,  with  its  miserable  party 
squabbles,  seems  like  child's  play  to  me. 

"The  worst  of  it  is,"  continued  Father 
Magrath  in  a  pensive  tone — "  the  worst  of  it 


is  the  lack  of  a  proper  spirit  at  Rome.  Why, 
here  I  am ;  and  I've  been  urging  for  years 
upon  the  Roman  Government  a  course  of 
action  that  mi.ght  have  given  them  untold 
wealth.  First,  I've  urged  the  ixhumeetion 
of  the  Palatine — the  palace  of  the  Csesars, 
the  Aurea  Domus  Neronis.  The  trisures 
that  must  lie  buried  there  would  be  enough 
to  give  them  means  for  carrying  out  the  bold 
est  designs  that  Antonelli  or  anybody  else 
might  wish.  Secondly,  and  still  more  ear 
nestly,  I've  urged  upon  them  the  plan  of  di 
verting  the  Tiber  from  its  bed.  It  would 
cost  something,  it  is  true ;  but  the  cost  would 
be  nothing  whin  compared  with  the  raysult. 
Why,  only  think  of  the  trisures  that  lie 
buried  there — the  gold,  the  silver,  the  dia 
monds,  the  gims,  and  precious  stones  ;  the 
statues,  the  carvings,  the  ornimints  innumer 
able.  Trisure !  Why,  in  the  bed  of  the 
Tiber  is  enough  trisure  to  buy  up  all  Italy! 
And  yet  the  Papal  Government  is  hard  up. 
And  why—  ?  " 

Father  Magrath  paused  and  looked  ear 
nestly  for  a  few  moments  at  Kane  Hellmuth. 

"  Why  ?  "  he  resumed.  "  I'll  tell  you 
why.  It's  because  they  want  an  Irish 
pope ! " 

"An  Irish  pope!"  repeated  Kane  Hell 
muth,  as  Father  Magrath  paused. 

"  Yis,"  said  Father  Magrath,  solemnly — 
"an  Irish  pope!  Rome,  Italy,  Christendom, 
all  need  an  Irish  pope.  The  Italians  cannot 
govern  Rome,  or  the  Church,  in  the  nine 
teenth  cintury.  They  are  a  worn-out  race. 
It's  not  poverty  that  ails  thim.  It's  indo- 
lince,  inertia,  want  of  interproise,  cowardice, 
and  all  that.  Give  Christendom  an  Irish 
pope,  and  she'd  be  redeemed.  The  worruld 
would  wear  a  diffirint  aspict  altogither,  the 
day  after  the  iliction  of  a  born  Paddy  to  the 
chair  of  Saint  Payter  should  be  made  known. 
No  country  but  Ireland,  no  race  but  the  Irish, 
could  furnish  the  riquisite  qualeefeeceetions. 
Ireland  has  the  piety,  and  the  loyalty  to  the 
Roman  Catholic  faith,  and  at  the  same  time 
it  has  the  spirit  of  indipindince,  the  love  of 
freedom,  and  above  all  the  ristliss,  bounding, 
invincible,  indefatigable  inirgy,  that  makes 
this  age  what  it  is.  What  is  now  the  layding 
nation  in  the  wurruld  ?  America.  Who 
have  made  America  what  it  is  ?  The  Irish 
people.  And,  therefore,  the  Irish  people, 
being  at  once  the  most  pious  and  the  most 
inirgitic  of  all  the  races  of  man,  are  the  ones 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


from  whom,  above  all,  the  next  Pope  of  Rome 
should  be  ilicted ! " 

Upon  this  Father  Magrath  at  length  suc 
ceeded  in  lighting  his  pipe,  an  attempt  in 
which  for  some  time  he  had  been  baffled  by 
his  own  eloquence,  and  then,  puffing  out 
heavy  volumes  of  smoke,  he  relapsed  for  a 
time  into  silence. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

FAMILY      MATTERS. 

FATHER  MAGRATH  thus  succeeded  at  last 
in  lighting  his  pipe,  and  for  a  few  moments 
his  flow  of  conversation  was  checked.  He 
sat  holding  the  pipe  with  his  left  hand  to  his 
mouth,  while  his  right  hand  stirred  a  spoon 
round  the  tumbler  of  toddy.  Clouds  of  smoke 
rolled  up  around  his  head,  through  which  his 
eyes  occasionally  peered  forth  in  a  furtive 
way,  yet  with  a  quick,  keen,  penetrating 
glance  at  the  rugged  face  and  sombre  brow 
of  Kane  Hellmuth.  The  latter  surveyed  the 
priest  calmly,  but  said  nothing.  He  had 
come  to  this  interview  out  of  no  desire  for 
society,  out  of  no  love  of  conversation,  and 
no  taste  for  that  conviviality  upon  which  his 
companion  laid  stress.  He  had  come  simply 
because  he  hoped  that  he  might  be  able  to 
learn  something  directly  or  indirectly  about 
Clara,  his  late  wife ;  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  one  who  filled  the  responsible  post  of 
father-confessor  to  this  family  would  be  the 
very  man  who,  of  all  others,  would  be  the 
most  likely  to  give  him  that  information 
which  he  needed.  He  listened,  therefore,  iii 
silence  and  with  patience  to  the  priest's  re 
marks,  thinking  that  his  wandering  fancy 
would  soon  exhaust  itself,  and  his  mind  come 
to  business  matters. 

"I  rigrit  extramely,"  said  Father  Magrath, 
at  length,  "  that  Miss  Mordaunt  isn't  at  home. 
But  she  couldn't  stay  here  any  longer.  The 
raycint  sad  occurrince,  the  dith  of  her  viniri- 
ble  frind,  preed  daiply  upon  her  mind,  and 
she  has  been  compilled  to  quit  the  city.  For 
me  own  part,  I  must  say  that,  although  I  was 
not  altogither  surprised  at  poor  Wyverne's 
dith,  I  nit  it  extramely." 

"Yes,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  who,  now 
that  Father  Magrath  had  got  to  a  topic  like 
this,  was  anxious  to  keep  him  to  it  and  to 
draw  him  out,  "  yes,  I  suppose  so,  but  it  wan 


very  sudden,  and  I  did  not  know  that  aiy 
ne  could  be  expecting  it." 

Father  Magrath  sighed  and  shook  his 
lead. 

"  I  was  acquainted  with  the  doctor  who 
ttended  him." 

"  The  doctor  that  attindid  him  ?  "  repeated 
Father  Magrath.  "  That'll  be  Dr.  Burke — no, 
Slack — no,  that's  not  it — it's  something  like 
t." 

"  Dr.  Blake." 

"  Blake — yis,  that's  the  name,  so  it  is.  A 
young  man — yis.  Miss  Mordaunt  infarrumed 
me  all  about  it,  and  she  mintioned  him  with 
much  rayspict." 

"  There  was  some  trouble  on  Mr.  "Wyverne's 
mind  toward  the  last,"  suggested  Kane  Hell 
muth.  "  The  doctor  said  that  Miss  Wyverne 
seemed  to  feel  uneasy.  I  hope  that  she  has 
overcome  that  feeling." 

"  Miss  Wyverne— what  ?  "  said  Father  Ma- 
grath.  "  What's  that  ?  Why,  ye  don't  mane 
that  wild  fancy  of  his  ?  Sure  and  did  yer 
frind  the  doctor  let  her  go  off  with  such  a 
fool's  fancy  in  her  poor  little  head  ?  D'ye 
mane  his  notion  about  not  knowing  her  ? 
Sure  and  it's  wild  he  was.  Didn't  I  hear  all 
about  it.  He  didn't  ricognize  his  own  choild. 
It  was  delirium.  He  was  out  of  his  sinsis. 
Yer  frind  the  doctor  must  be  very  young  to 
take  the  language  of  faver  and  delirium  for 
sober  sinse.  I'm  afraid  he  hadn't  his  wits 
about  him ;  but,  most  of  all,  I  blame  him  for 
not  explaining  to  her,  poor  girl.  Faith,  thin, 
there's  no  fear  that  she'll  be  troubled  about 
that.  She's  got  a  black  future  before  her, 
I'm  afraid." 

"I  sincerely  hope  that  no  new  affliction 
has  happened  to  Miss  Wyverne." 

"  Well,  it's  ginerally  considered  an  afflic 
tion,"  said  Father  Magrath,  "  to  be  lift  disti- 
choot" 

"  Destitute  ?  Why,  wasn't  her  father  a 
very  rich  man?  " 

Father  Magrath  shook  his  head  with  sol 
emn  and  mournful  emphasis. 

"No,"  said  he,  "Miss  Wyverne  has  noth 
ing.  Her  father  had  nothing  to  layve  her. 
He  was  head  over  heels  in  dibt.  Under  the 
show  of  great  apparent  wilth,  he  concealed 
utter  poverty." 

"  You  amaze  me,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  in 
a  sympathizing  tone. 

"  It  was  an  old  dibt,"  continued  Father 
Masrath,  "contracted  years  ago  —  he  niver 


FAMILY   MATTERS. 


73 


was  able  to  do  any  thing  with  it.  He  had  t 
kape  up  a  certain  style,  and  this,  of  coorse 
necissitated  a  great  ixpinditure ;  consequent!) 
he  wint  from  bad  to  worse.  One  man  was 
his  chief  creditor,  and  he  was  lenient  for  a 
long  time,  until  this  last  year  or  so,  whin  h< 
changed  his  chune,  and  demanded  a  sittle 
mint  or  some  sort  of  security.  All  this  preyed 
greatly  upon  my  poor  frind's  mind,  and,  in 
conniction  with  the  life-long  anxieties  of  his 
business,  resulted  in  some  amction  of  the 
heart,  some  inflammeetion  of  the  pericarjum 
And  here  now  ye  see  the  ind.  Here  he  is — a 
did  man — and  here  is  his  daughter  literally 
pinniliss.  What's  wust,  she  doesn't  know 
any  thing  about  it  yit,  and  I'm  bothered  out 
of  me  life  about  it,  for  it  is  my  milancholy 
juty  to  infarrum  her  of  these  facts,  but  how 
I'm  to  do  it  I  don't  for  the  life  of  me  know. 

Father  Magrath  was  silent  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  and  pensively  sipped  his  toddj. 

" By-the-way,"  said  he,  at  length,  "this 
frind  of  yours,  the  doctor,  do  ye  know  where 
he  is?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  he's  in  Paris." 
"  In  Paris  ?  Well,  that's  very  convay- 
nient.  I  find  that  it  is  nicissary  for  me  to 
obtain  some  sort  of  a  formal  steetment  from 
his  medical  man,  if  possible,  rilitiv  to  the  dis 
ease  of  poor  Wyverne,  and  to  have  it  jewly 
attested  before  some  magistrate.  If  yer  frind 
is  so  handy  as  that,  maybe  I  might  write  and 
he'd  forward  the  nicissary  documents.  Would 
ye  have  the  kindniss  to  give  me  his  address  ? 
and,  perhaps,  ye'd  better  write  it  out  in  this 
mimorandum-book." 

With  this  Father  Magrath  drew  a  memo 
randum-book  and  a  pencil  from  his  pocket. 
Opening  the  former,  he  handed  it  to  Kane 
Hellmuth.  The  latter  took  it,  and,  on  the 
page  indicated  by  the  priest,  he  wrote  down 
the  address  of  Dr.  Blake  in  full.  The  priest 
thanked  him,  and  restored  the  memorandum- 
book  to  his  pocket. 

"Yis,"  he  continued,  in  a  soliloquizing 
tone,  "  it  was  very  sad  the  whole  affair,  poor 
Wyverne's  life  and  his  dith.  His  money- 
troubles  killed  him  at  last.  He  was  always 
hard  up— his  wilth  all  show,  and  a  grasping 
criditor,  and  him  as  poor  as  a  rat,  with  noth 
ing  to  leave  his  daughter,  poor  girl." 

"  What'll  become    of   Miss  Wyverne  ?  " 
asked  Kane  Hellmuth,  with  some  interest. 
Father  Magrath  smiled. 
"  Oh,  for  that  matter,  there's  no  danger, 


after  all.  It's  only  the  sinse  of  indipindince 
that  she'll  lose.  She  has  frinds  that  love  her 
'  far  too  dearly  to  see  her  suffer,  and  they'll 
know  how  to  keep  her  from  knowing  any 
thing  of  want." 

"  Was  Mr.  Wyverne  any  relation  to  Miss 
Mordaunt  ?  "  asked  Kane  Hellmuth,  who  now 
felt  anxious  to  bring  the  conversation  nearer 
to  the  subject  of  his  thought. 

"A  distant  relation.  Mr.  Wyverne  was 
her  guardian." 

"She  has  something,  I  suppose,  to  live 
upon  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes ;  she  is  sufficiently  well  pro 
vided  for  to  make  her  feel  jew  contintmint. 
Her  wants  are  not  ixtravagant.  She  has  been 
brought  up  with  very  simple  tastes,  and,  for 
that  matter,  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst, 
she  could  be  a  governess.  It's  very  different 
with  her  from  what  it  is  with  Miss  Wyverne, 
that's  looked  on  hersilf  all  her  life  as  an 
heiress." 

"  lias  Miss  Mordaunt  any  brothers  or 
sisters  ?  " 

"JSTo,"  said  the  priest;  "she's  alone  in 
the  wurruld.  There  were  others,  but  they're 
dead  and  gone.  She's  had  a  sad  lot  in  life — 
orphaned  in  her  infancy — alone  without  any 
rilitives  to  speak  of— but  she's  got  a  good, 
and  a  gintle,  and  an  angilic  disposition  of  her 
own." 

"  Had  she  no  sisters  ?  "  asked  Kane  Hell 
muth,  in  a  voice  which  he  tried  to  make  as 
steady  as  possible,  but  in  which,  in  spite  of 
bis  efforts,  there  was  a  perceptible  tremor. 
The  priest  took  a  hasty  glance  at  him,  and 
saw  that  his  head  was  bowed,  leaning  upon 
ais  hand. 

"  She  had,"  said  the  priest,  after  a  short 
hesitation — "  she  had  a  sister." 

"A  sister?  I  thought  so,"  said  Kane 
Hellmuth.  "  Was  she  older  or  younger  ?  " 

"  Older — tin  years  older." 

"  Do  you  know  her  name  ?  " 

"  Clara." 

With  every  new  word  the  agitation  of 
lane  Hellmuth  had  increased,  so  that  it 
would  have  been  perceptible  to  duller  eyes 
han  those  keen  and  scrutinizing  ones  of  Fa- 
her  Magrath,  which  were  fastened  so  vigi- 
antly  and  so  searchingly  upon  him. 

"  Bessie,"  said  the  priest,  in  a  mournful 
one,  "comes   from   an   ill-fated   family.      I 
hope  she  may  be  an  ixciption  to  the  mourn 
ful  distinies  that  seem  to  purshoo  her  rili- 


74 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


tives.  There  was  the  mother,  died  in  the 
prime  of  her  life;  there  was  the  father,  wint 
mad  with  sorrow,  and  took  himsilf  off  to  for 
eign  parts,  where  he  wint  and  died.  Thin, 
there  was  this  elder  sister.  Whin  Mr.  Mor- 
daunt  died,  Mr.  Wyverne  stipped  forward  and 
took  the  two  poor  orphans  under  his  own 
protiction.  He  didn't  take  thim  into  his  own 
house,  because  it  wasn't  couvaynent,  owing  to 
family  diffeeculties  of  his  own  with  his  wife; 
but  he  put  the  two  orphans  in  good  hands,  as 
I  can  tistify.  He  was  as  good  as  a  father  to 
thim.  He  took  care  of  their  little  means, 
and,  for  that  matter,  ye  might  say  he  gave 
it  to  thim." 

"What  became  of  this  elder  sister?" 
asked  Kane  Hellmuth,  in  a  scarcely  audible 
voice. 

"  It  was  a  very  sade  fate,  the  saddest  I 
iver  knew,"  said  the  priest.  "  Mr.  Wyverne 
had  determined  to  give  her  the  best  educa 
tion  possible,  and  sint  her  to  a  boarding- 
school  in  Paris." 
"  Well  ?  " 

"  Well,  it's  almost  too  sad  to  talk  about. 
Remimber,  she  was  very  young  —  a  mere 
choild — not  over  sixteen,  and  that,  too,  in  a 
Frinch  school,  where  gyerruls  are  so  secludid. 
Well,  it  happened  that  some  prowling  advin- 
turer — some  unprincipled  and  fiendish  delu- 
dherin'  riptoile— managed  to  make  her  ac- 
quaiutince.  Ye  know  the  ind  of  that.  There 
is  only  one  ind.  That  ind  was  hers.  Clara 
Mordaunt  was  ruined  by  the  macheeneetions 
of  a  scoundril  that  I  hope  and  trust  is  ayvin 
now  gittin  his  jew  in  this  life  or  the  other." 

At  this,  Kane  Hellmuth's  face  turned  to  a 
ghastly  pallor.  It  was  hard  indeed  for  him 
to  listen  to  this,  and  yet  say  nothing. 

"  I  have  heard  something  about  it,"  sai< 
he.  "  A  friend  of  mine  once  told  me,  som 
years  ago,  but  he  said  they  were  married." 

"  Married  1 "  said  the  priest,  with  a  sneer 
"  There  were  no  pains  taken  to  lit  the  mar 
riage  be  known,  at  any  rate,  and  the  scanda 
about  her  was  as  bad  as  if  she  had  not  been 
No,  depind  upon  it,  there  was  no  marriage 
She  was  run  away  with.  It  was  the  old  story 
and  it  came  to  the  same  ind." 

"The  end?  what  was  the  end?"  gaspec 
Hellmuth. 

"  The  villain  deserted  her,  and — " 
"  He  did  not ! "  cried  Hellmuth,  in  a  ten- 
ble  voice,   starting  up  and  looking  at  th 
priest. 


"  I  only  say  what  I've  heard,  and  what  the 
rinds  of  the  poor  gyerrul  have  heard  and 
ave  believed,"  said  the  priest,  mildly.  "  Per- 
aps  ye  know  more  about  it  than  I  do.  If 
.  were  livin'  in  Paris  that  toime,  ye  irlght 
ave  found  out,  and  in  that  case  ye  can  tell 
me." 

Kane  Hellmuth  made  a  mighty  effort,  and 
egained  his  self-control. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  he  ;  "  but  years  ago 
saw  the  man  that  you  speak  of.  He  was  my 
riend.  He  said  that  he  was  married." 

The  priest  shrugged  his  shoulders  in- 
Tedulously. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  he  said  so,"  he  remarked ; 
1  that's  what  they  always  say.  At  any  rate, 
.here  is  the  fact  that  she  was  virtually  be- 
.rayed,  deserted,  and  died  the  worst  of  deaths, 
brought  down  to  that  by  a  brokin  heart. 
What  matter  his  impty  protistations  about 
farrums  of  matremoney,  I  ask  ye,  in  the  face 
of  sich  a  catasthrophe  as  that  ?  " 

To  this  Kane  Hellmuth  made  no  answer. 
He  came  to  get  information,  not  to  argue  or 
to  apologize.  He  knew  better  than  any  other 
what  was  the  actual  extent  of  the  guilt  of 
that  man  of  whom  the  priest  spoke  so  se 
verely  ;  but  he  had  no  heart  to  offer  an  apol 
ogy.  Was  not  the  deed  itself  full  of  horror  ? 
had  it  not  crushed  his  life  down  into  the  dust 
of  never-ending  self-reproach  ? 

"  Did  she  die  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  faint  voice, 
returning  to  the  subject. 

"She  did,  and  by  the  worst  of  deaths. 
She  died — and— by  her  own  hand." 

The  priest  paused.  Kane  Hellmuth  lis 
tened  breathlessly.  At  last  the  revelation 
was  coming. 

"  It  was  found  out  by  their  landlord,  who 
told  her  frinds  afterward  all  about  it.  Ac 
cording  to  his  story,  the  two  had  high  words 
togither  that  morning.  Toward  ayvenin'  he 
suspictid  something,  and  knocked  at  the  dure. 
There  was  no  answer,  which  made  him  break 
open  the  dure.  There  he  saw  a  sight  that 
filled  him  with  horror.  The  poor  gyerrul  lay 
did  stone  did,  on  the  flure,  and  the  scoundril 
that  had  killed  her  was  in  some  drunken  fit 
on  a  sofa,  or  in  bed.  He  was  sint  off  to  his 
frinds  — she  was  buried.  He  disappeared, 
and  I  hope  he's  did.  I  wouldn't  like  to  be 
sittin'  near  that  man.  Priest  though  I  am, 
I  fear  I  should  feel  a  murderous  inclination 
stealing  over  me.  I  wouldn't  have  any  con- 
fidince  in  mesilf,  at  all  at  all— not  me.  Ye 


FAMILY  MATTERS. 


75 


say  ye're  his  frind.     Can  ye  tell  me  what  be 
came  of  him  ?  " 

"  He's  dead,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  in  a 
faint,  choking  voice. 

"  Dead  ?  Thin  I  hope  he  killed  himsilf 
That  was  the  best  thing  left  for  him  to  do  af 
ter  killing  that  poor  gyerrul." 

At  this  Kane  Hellmuth  bowed  dowa  his 
head,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  Was 
there  any  thing  more  now  for  him  to  learn? 
Was  not  this  enough,  this  confident  declara 
tion  of  Father  Magrath  ?  Did  he  wish  any 
more  ?  Could  he  venture  to  go  into  details 
about  such  a  subject,  and  ask  the  particulars 
of  that  most  terrible  of  tragedies  from  a  man 
like  this,  who  uttered  words  that  pierced  like 
daggers  ?  That  were  too  hard  a  task.  The 
information  which  he  had  already  gained 
seemed  sufficient. 

"Her  frinds,"  continued  the  priest,  still 
pursuing  the  train  of  thought  which  had  been 
started,  "  buried  her,  and  strove  to  save  her 
name  from  stain  by  putting  the  name  of  the 
man  on  the  stone,  just  as  if  he  had  been  her 
husband.  And  so,  if  ye  iver  go  to  the  cime- 
tery  of  Pere-la-Chaise,  ye'll  see  on  that  stone, 
not  the  name  of  Clara  Mordaunt  but  Clara 
Ruthven.  Ruthven,  ye  know,  is  the  name  of 
the  villain  that  killed  her." 

At  this  a  deep  groan  burst  from  Kane 
Hellmuth. 

"Sure,  ye  don't  seem  well,"  said  the 
priest,  in  a  tone  which  was  meant  to  express 
sympathy.  "  Won't  ye  take  some  more  whis 
key?  Try  it — neat.  Its  moighty  iffictive, 
-whin  taken  that  way,  for  dispilling  mintal 
deprission,  and  shuperinjewcing  a  contint- 
mint  and  placidity  of  moind." 

Kane  Hellmuth  shook  his  head. 
"  Well,"  said  the  priest,  "  Til  power  out  a 
thimbleful  for  mesilf,  for  the  subject  is  a  dis- 
trissing  one  intirely.  And  so  ye  say,"  he 
continued,  "  that  this  man  is  a  frind  of  yours, 
or  was  ?  Sure,  and  I'd  like  to  know,  thin,  is 
he  alive  now  ?  " 

Kane  Hellmuth  drew  a  deep  breath. 
"  He's  dead,"  said  he  again,  in  a  hollow 
voice. 

"Dead!  Oh,  yis.  So  ye  said  before. 
Whin  did  he  die  ?  " 

"  Ten  years  ago,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth. 
"Tin  years    ago!     Why,  that  was    the 
same  toime ! " 

"He  died  when  she  died,"  said  Kane  Hell 
muth,  in  the  same  tone. 


"  Sure,  and  I  nivir  heard  a  word  of  that 
afore.  And  what  was  it  that  he  died  of? 
Min,  like  that,  don't  often  die  off  so  aisy. 
They  live  long,  whin  their  betters  die ;  and 
that's  the  way  of  the  wurruld.  What  was  it 
that  he  died  of,  thin  ?  " 

"  He  killed  himself,"  eaid  Kane  Hellmuth, 
in  harsh,  discordant  tones,  that  seemed  wrung 
out  of  him. 

"Killed  himself!"  repeated  the  priest. 
"  Well,  it's  well  he  did ;  for,  if  that  man  were 
alive  now  at  this  moment,  it  would  be  enough 
to  make  poor  Clara  rise  from  her  grave." 

These  last  words  were  too  much.  Thus 
far  this  priest  had  shown  an  astonishing  capa 
city  for  saying  things  that  cut  his  companion  to 
the  very  soul,  and  saying  them,  too,  in  a  cas 
ual,  off-hand,  unconscious  way,  as  if  they  were 
elicited  by  the  subject  of  their  conversation. 
It  had  been  hard  for  Kane  Hellmuth  to  en 
dure  it  thus  far,  but  he  could  endure  it  no 
longer.  These  last  words  summed  up  briefly 
the  whole  horror  of  his  present  situation,  to 
avert  which,  or  to  escape  from  which,  he  had 
made  this  journey. 

He  started  to  his  feet.  He  did  not  look  at 
the  priest. 

"  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  he,  "  for 
the  information  which  you  have  given." 

At  this  the  priest  stared  at  him  in  aston 
ishment,  which,  if  not  real,  was  certainly  well 
eigned. 

"  What's   this  ?  "  he  said,   "  what's  this  ? 
Why,  man !     What  d'ye  mane  ?     Ye  can't  be 
oing!     And    the    ayvenin'    not    fairly    be- 
un." 

"I  must  go  now,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth, 
abruptly,  in  a  hoarse  voice.  "  My — my  time 
s  limited."  He  stood  swaying  backward  and 
brward,  his  face  ghastly,  his  eyes  glazed, 
and  staring  wildly  at  vacancy.  He  did  not 
see  the  keen  glance  of  the  priest  as  he  ear 
nestly  regarded  him. 

Kane  Hellmuth  staggered  toward  the 
door.  The  priest  followed. 

"  Sure,"  said  he,  "  it's  sick  ye  are.     And 
ye   won't  take  another  glass  ?     Perhaps,  ye'd 
ike  cognac.     In  the  name  of  wonder,  what's 
ome  over  ye,  man  ?     Take  some  cognac,  or 
ye'll  niver  get  home.     Sure,  and   I'll  niver 
et  ye  go  this  way.     Wait,  and  get  some  co- 
nac.     Faith,  and  ye  must  wait,  thin." 

Saying  this,  the  priest  laid  his  hand  on 
£ane  Hellrnuth's  arm,  and  drew  him  back. 
£ane  Hellmuth  stood  with  a  dazed  look  in 


76 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


his  eyes,  and  an  expression  of  anguish  on  his 
face.  The  priest  hurried  to  the  sideboard, 
and,  pouring  out  a  tumbler  nearly  full  of  co 
gnac,  offered  it  to  his  companion,  who  took 
it  eagerly  and  gulped  it  down.  The  fiery 
draught  seemed  to  bring  him  back  to  himself, 
out  of  that  temporary  state  of  semi-uncon 
sciousness  into  which  he  had  fallen.  His 
eyes  fell  upon  the  priest,  and  the  wild  light 
faded  out  of  them. 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  said  he,  in  a  perfectly 
cool  and  courteous  manner,  which  offered  a 
striking  contrast  to  the  tone  of  his  voice  but 
a  minute  before.  "  I  am  subject  to  spasms 
of  the  heart,  and  I'm  afraid  I've  caused  you 
some  alarm.  But  they  do  not  last  long,  and 
your  kind  and  prompt  assistance  has  helped 
me." 

"  Won't  ye  sit  down  again,  thin?  "  said  the 
priest,  earnestly,  "  and  finish  the  ayvenin'  ?  " 

"  You're  very  kind,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth, 
"but,  after  this  attack,  I  might  have  another, 
and,  under  the  circumstances,  I  think  I  had 
better  go." 

"  Won't  ye  stay  and  rest,  thin,  till  ye  feel 
stronger  ?  "  persisted  the  priest. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  "but 
I  require  the  open  air  just  now.  A  walk  of  a 
mile  or  so  is  the  best  thing  for  me.  I  shall, 
therefore,  bid  you  good-by,  with  many  thanks 
for  your  courtesy." 

Saying  this,  he  held  out  his  hand.  The 
priest  took  it  and  shook  it  heartily. 

"I  won't  say  good-by,"  said  the  priest. 
"  We'll  meet  again,  I  hope.  So  I'll  say  au 
revoir" 

"An  revoir"  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  cour 
teously,  falling  in  with  the  priest's  mood. 

They  thus  shook  hands,  and  Kane  Hell 
muth  departed. 

The  priest  accompanied  him  to  the  door. 
He  then  returned  to  the  room.  He  poured 
out  a  fresh  glass  of  toddy,  lighted  a  fresh 
pipe,  and  then,  flinging  himself  into  an  arm 
chair,  sat  meditating,  smoking,  and  sipping 
toddy,  far  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MORDAUNT     MANOR. 

SEVERAL  miles  away  from  Keswick,  Cum 
berland,  lay  some  extensive  estates,  surround 
ing  a  first-class  country-house,  known  as  Mor- 


daunt  Manor.  About  a  fortnight  after  the 
departure  of  Inez  for  the  Continent,  a  solitary 
horseman  stopped  at  the  gates  of  Mordaunt 
Manor,  and  was  admitted  by  the  porter. 

A  broad  avenue  lay  before  him,  -winding 
onward  amid  groves  and  meadows,  lined  on 
each  side  by  majestic  trees,  among  which 
clouds  of  rooks  were  fluttering  and  scream 
ing.  Riding  along  this  avenue  for  about  a 
mile,  he  at  length  came  in  sight  of  the  manor- 
house.  It  was  a  stately  edifice,  in  a  style 
which  spoke  of  the  days  of  the  Restoration 
and  Queen  Anne — one  of  those  massive  and 
heavy  houses  which  might  have  been  built  by 
a  disciple  of  Yanbrugh,  or  Vanbrugh  him 
self — a  false  classicism  employed  for  domestic 
purposes,  and  therefore  thoroughly  out  of 
place,  yet,  on  the  whole,  undeniably  grand. 
There  were  gardens  around,  which  still  had 
that  artificial  French  character  that  was  loved 
by  those  who  reared  this  edifice.  There  was 
any  quantity  of  box-wood  vases,  and  plants 
cut  to  resemble  animals,  and  a  complete  popu 
lation  of  nymphs  and  Olympian  gods. 

The  horseman  dismounted,  at  length,  and, 
throwing  the  bridle  to  one  of  the  servants, 
ascended  the  steps  and  entered  the  house. 
He  gave  his  name  as  Sir  Gwyn  Ruthven. 

Sir  Gwyn  Ruthven  seemed  to  be  an  aver 
age  young  man  of  the  period.  He  was  under 
twenty-five  years  of  age,  of  medium  height, 
with  regular  features,  brown  hair  cut  short 
and  parted  in  the  middle,  side-whiskers  not 
extravagantly  long,  bright,  animated  eyes, 
and  genial  smile.  An  eye-glass  dangled  from 
his  button-hole,  and  a  general  air  of  easy 
self-possession  pervaded  him. 

Two  ladies  were  in  the  drawing-room  as 
he  entered.  One  of  these  was  an  elderly 
personage,  with  a  face  full  of  placidity,  self- 
content,  and  torpid  good-nature.  The  other 
was  a  young  lady,  whose  vivid  blue  eyes, 
golden  hair  all  flowing  in  innumerable  crimps 
and  frizzles,  retroussS  nose,  perpetual  smile, 
and  animated  expression,  could  belong  to  no 
other  person  in  the  world  than  Bessie  Mor 
daunt. 

Bessie  had  already  risen,  and  greeted  the 
new-comer  with  the  cordial  air  of  an  old  ac 
quaintance.  She  then  introduced  her  com 
panion,  who  seemed  to  act  in  the  general 
capacity  of  duenna,  guardian,  chaperon, 
guide,  philosopher,  and  friend. 

"  Let  me  make  you  acquainted  with  my 
dearest  auntie — Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin." 


MORDAUNT  MANOR. 


77 


"  I  could  scarcely  believe  what  I  heard," 
said  Sir  Gwyn.  "  I  had  no  idea  that  the  Miss 
Mordaunt  of  Mordaunt  Manor  was  you  ;  but, 
from  what  they  told  me,  I  saw  it  must  be. 
Even  then  I  could  hardly  believe  that  I  should 
be  so  fortunate  as  to  have  you  for  so  near  a 
neighbor ;  and  so,  you  see,  I've  dropped  cere 
mony,  and  come  at  once,  without  giving  you 
time  to  rest  after  the  fatigues  of  your  jour 
ney.  But,  'pon  my  life,  Miss  Mordaunt,  I 
couldn't  help  it ;  and  it's  awfully  good  in  you, 
you  know,  to  see  me." 

To  this  Bessie  listened  with  her  archest 
look  and  merriest  smile.  It  was  evident  that 
they  were  very  good  friends,  and  that  the 
pleasure  which  Sir  Gwyn  so  plainly  expressed 
was  not  disagreeable  to  her. 

"  Sure,"  said  she,  "  a  month  ago  this  day 
I  hadn't  the  least  idea  I'd  be  here  now  ;  and 
I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it  at  all,  at  all. 
But  it  was  so  very,  very  sad  about  poor,  dear 
Mr.   Wy  verne !      It   almost   makes   me   cry. 
But,  then,  you  know,  it's  such  a  comfort  to 
be  with  my  dearest  auntie  again  ! " 
Sir  Gwyn  looked  at  her  admiringly. 
"  You  vanished  out  of  London  so  sud 
denly,  you  know,"  said  he,  "  that  I  began  to 
think  I  should  never  sea  you  again.   And  Mr. 
Wyverne — ah! — yes— very  sad — to  be  sure 
— as  you  say.     I  suppose,  however,  he  was 
no  relative — " 
Bessie  sighed. 

"  No,  not  a  relative,"  said  she  ;  "  but  then, 
you  know,  he  was  always  so  awfully  kind  to 
me,  and  he  was  my  dear  old  guardy,  and, 

really,  I  loved  him  almost  like — like — an 

an  uncle,  you  know  ;  and  it's  myself  that  was 
fairly  heart-broken — when — when  I  lost  him." 
Another  sigh  followed.  It  was  a  mourn 
ful  theme,  and  Sir  Gwyn's  face  was  full  of 
sympathy  for  this  lovely  mourner. 

"  How  is  Miss  Wyverne  ?  "  he  asked,  gen 
tly. 

Bessie  sighed,  and  shook  her  pretty  little 
head. 

"  She  feels  it  very,  very  deeply,"  said  she, 
"  of  course — she  is  such  a  very  affectionate 
nature — and  it  was  all  so  awfully  sudden,  you 
know !  I  was  so  anxious  for  her  to  come  here 
with  me — poor  darling !— but  I  couldn't  get 
her  to  do  so.  And  it's  fairly  dead  with  grief 
she  is  this  day.  I  told  her  how  I  sympathized 
with  her,  but  it  was  no  use.  Oh,  yes,  Sir 
Gwyn !  it's  myself  that  knows  what  it  is  to 
lose  a  papa,  and  a  dear  mamma,  too,  by  the 


same  token ;  for  I've  been  through  it  all,  and 
it's  awfully  sad.     It  almost  makes  me  cry." 

At  this  Sir  Gwyn  looked  deeply  distressed, 
and  tried  to  change  the  conversation. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  he,  "  Miss  Mordaunt, 
you  have  not  been  here  for  a  long  time  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Bessie,  "not  since  I  was  a 
child.  It's  perfectly  strange  to  me.  I  don't 
remember  one  single  thing  about  it.  But  I 
was  so  very,  very  young,  you  know — a  child 
in  arms,  positively !  So,  of  course,  I  remem 
ber  nothing.  I  was  taken  away  to  France, 
you  know." 

"  To  France  ?  "  repeated  Sir  Gwyn,  in  some 
surprise. 

He  knew  nothing  about  the  history  of 
Bessie's  life,  and  was  quite  eager  to  get  her 
to  tell  something  about  a  subject  which  was 
evidently  so  deeply  interesting  to  him. 

"Yes,"  said  Bessie;  "and  so,  as  I  was 
taken  away  so  early,  I  really  know  nothing 
whatever  about  Mordaunt  Manor,  though  it 
is  my  own  sweet  home.  My  dearest  auntie 
knows  all  about  it,  and  many's  the  time  she's 
took  up  whole  days  telling  me  about  my  an 
cestors." 

At  thiSv  Sir  Gwyn  regarded  Mrs.  Hicks 
Lugrin  with  a  bland  and  benevolent  smile,  as 
though  her  close  connection  with  Bessie  was 
of  itself  enough  to  give  her  interest  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  know,  then,"  said  he, 
with  a  smile,  "  that  I  am  your  nearest  neigh 
bor.  I  should  have  told  you  that  in  London, 
if  I  had  only  known  it." 

"  Oh,  auntie  told  me,"  said  Bessie. 

"  I  hope,"  said  Sir  Gwyn,  "  that  Mordaunt 
Manor  won't  be  any  the  less  pleasant  to  you 
on  that  account." 

"  Well,"  said  Bessie,  with  a  droll  smile, 
"  there's  no  knowing.  You  may  be  after 
finding  me  a  disagreeable  neighbor,  and,  be 
fore  we  know  it,  we  may  be  engaged  in  litiga 
tion  with  each  other.  And  I  never  knew  till 
yesterday,  and  I  think  it's  the  awfullest,  fun- 
niest  thing ! " 

"  It's  a  remarkable  coincidence,"  said  Mrs. 
Hicks  Lugrin,  suddenly,  after  a  period  of  deep 
thought,  "  and  one,  my  dear  Bessie,  which,  I 
may  say,  is  as  pleasant  as  it  is  remarkable." 

There  was  some  degree  of  abruptness  in 
this  speech,  and  in  the  tone  of  Mrs.  Hicks 
Lugrin  there  was  something  that  was  a  little 
stiff  and  "  school-ma'amish,"  but  Sir  Gwyn 
was  too  amiable  to  criticise  the  tone  of  a 


78 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


kindly  remark,  and  was  too  well  pleased  to 
think  of  such  a  thing.  He  looked  more  be- 
nignantly  than  ever  at  Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin, 
and  a  thought  came  to  him  that  she  was  a 
very  admirable  sort  of  woman. 

"Oh,  thanks,"  he  laughed,  "but  really 
when  you  come  to  talk  of  pleasure  about 
this  discovery,  I  am  dumb.  Pleasure  isn't 
the  word.  I  assure  you  Ruthven  Towers  will 
know  a  great  deal  more  of  me  now  than  it 
has  thus  far.  Pve  been  deserting  it  too 
much.  It's  a  pity,  too ;  for  it  is  one  of  the 
finest  places  in  the  country.  Perhaps  some 
day  I  may  hope  to  have  the  honor  of  showing 
it  to  you  and  your— your  amiable  aunt.  I'm 
awfully  sorry  that  I  have  no  one  there  to  do 
the  honors,  but  you  know  I'm  alone  in  the 
world,  like  yourself,  Miss  Mordaunt." 

Saying  this,  Sir  Gwyn  looked  at  her  with 
very  much  tenderness  of  expression  and  a 
Avorld  of  eloquent  suggestiveness  in  his 
eye. 

"  How  very,  very  funny — that  is,  sad  !  " 
said  Bessie,  hastily  correcting  herself. 

"That,"  remarked  Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin, 
with  her  usual  abruptness,  "  is  a  circumstance 
which  can  easily  be  remedied." 

This  remark  conveyed  a  meaning  to  Sir 
Gwyn  which,  though  not  in  very  good  taste, 
was  nevertheless  so  very  agreeable  to  him 
that  his  face  flushed  with  delight,  and  lie 
thought  more  highly  of  Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin 
th;m  ever.  But  Bessie  did  not  seem  to  ap 
prehend  its  implied  meaning  in  the  slightest 
degree. 

"  Ruthven  Towers,"  she  said ;  "  what  a 
perfectly  lovely  name — so  romantic,  you  know 
— and  I  do  hope,  Sir  Gwyn,  that  it  is  a  dear 
old  romantic  ruin.  I'm  so  awfully  fond  of 
ruins !  " 

"  No,"  said  Sir  Gwyn.  "  I'm  very  sorry, 
but,  unfortunately,  it's  in  excellent  preserva 
tion." 

"  How  very,  very  sad  !  "  said  Bessie.  "  I 
do  so  dote  on  old  ruins  !  " 

At  this  Sir  Gwyn  looked  pained.  For  the 
moment  he  actually  regretted  that  his  grand 
old  home  was  not  a  heap  of  ruins,  so  that  he 
might  have  the  happiness  of  gratifying  the 
romantic  enthusiasm  of  this  lovely  girl. 

"  Ruins,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin, 
"  may  be  very  congenial  to  the  artistic  taste, 
but,  for  a  young  man  that  has  life  before  him, 
there  is  nothing  so  wholesome  as  a  whole 
house  over  his  head." 


This  remark  Sir  Gwyn  entirely  approved 
of,  and  acknowledged  it  by  another  of  his  be 
nignant  smiles. 

The  conversation  now  wandered  off  to 
other  things.  Sir  Gwyn  and  Bessie  had 
much  to  say  about  the  last  London  season. 
He  had  met  her  then,  and  had  seen  her  sev 
eral  times,  during  which  interviews  he  had 
gained  a  friendly  footing,  and  had  begun  to 
manifest  for  her  an  interest  very  much  deeper 
than  usual,  which  Bessie  could  not  have  been 
altogether  ignorant  of.  Upon  the  present  oc 
casion  he  was  evidently  most  eager  to  avail 
himself  of  all  the  advantages  which  grew  out 
of  this  former  acquaintance  ;  combined  with 
the  additional  advantages  of  his  position  in 
the  county,  and  his  close  neighborhood  to 
her,  it  gave  him  occasion  to  offer  her  many 
little  services.  He  knew  all  about  Mordaunt, 
and  could  tell  her  all  about  it.  He  could 
also  show  her  Ruthven  Towers.  These  were 
the  things  that  first  occurred  to  him  as  being 
at  once  most  desirable,  most  pleasant,  and 
most  natural,  under  the  circumstances. 

Bessie's  chaperon  seemed  to  be  pleased 
with  Sir  Gwyn's  polite  attentions,  but  Bessie 
herself  was  very  non-committal.  She  spoke 
of  the  necessity  of  seclusion,  and  alluded  to 
the  death  of  her  guardian  as  something  which 
she  ought  to  observe  in  some  way  commen 
surate  with  her  own  grief.  Sir  Gwyn,  upon 
this,  was  too  delicate  to  press  the  matter,  and 
postponed  it  until  another  time. 

"  English  country-life,"  said  Bessie,  in 
the  course  of  these  remarks,  "  is  a  stranga 
thing  to  me  entirely.  I've  never  seen  any 
thing  of  it,  at  all,  at  all;  and  really  it  will  be 
quite  u  new  world  to  the  likes  of  me.  I  was 
so  young  when  I  was  taken  to  France,  you 
know,  Sir  Gwyn,  and  all  that  I  know  of  Eng 
lish  country-life  is  what  I  have  heard  from 
dear  auntie— isn't  it,  auntie,  dearest  ?  " 

"  Your  observations  are  entirely  correct," 
said  Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin. 

"  Then  let  me  hope,"  said  Sir  Gwyn,  po 
litely,  "  that  you  will  find  it  as  pleasant  as 
London  life." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  I  found  London  life  per 
fectly  charming,"  said  Bessie,  with  enthu 
siasm.  "And  you  know  I  had  just  come 
from  France,  and  you  may  imagine  what  a 
change  it,  was." 

"  You  must  havejived  there  all  your  life." 

"Yes,"  said  Bessie.  "It  was  at  St.- 
Malo.  Have  you  ever  been  there,  Sir  Gwyn?" 


MORDAUNT  MANOR, 


79 


"  No,  never."  I 

"  Oh,  it's  such  a  perfectly  charming 
place,"  said  Bessie,  "  and  it's  more  like  my 
home  than  any  other  place.  It's  so  lovely 
And  I  was  taken  there  when  I  was — oh,  onl} 
the  littlest  mite  of  a  little  thing,  and  livec 
there  till  only  a  year  ago,  Sir  Gwyn,  and  sure 
it  was  myself  that  had  the  sore  heart  when 
poor,  dear,  darling  guardy  came  to  take  me 
away,  so  it  was." 

"I'm  sure  it  must  have  been,"  said  Sir 
Gwyn,  in  tones  full  of  tenderest  sympathy. 

"  I'm  sure  it  was  awfully  sad  to  lose  my 
papa  and  mamma,"  said  Bessie,  mournfully, 
"  but  to  lose  my  home  seemed  worse,  so  it 
did  ;  and  that's  why  I  feel  so  awfully  sorry 
about  my  poor,  darling  Iny.  Not  but  that 
she  has  a  home — but  then  it  doesn't  seem  like 
it  at  all,  at  all." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Sir  Gwyn. 
"And  it's  worse  for  poor,  dear,  darling 
Iny   than   it   is  for  me,"  continued   Bessie, 
41  for  you  know  she  has  no  one,  and   I  have 
my  other    dear  guardy,  my  poor  mamma's 
dear  papa,  you  know,  Sir  Gwyn.     And  he's 
the  very  nicest  person  !    You  can't  imagine  !  " 
Sir  Gwyn  looked  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
Imagine,  but  was  unable. 

"You  know  her,  my  own  dear,  darling 
Iny — do  you  not,  Sir  Gwyn  ?  " 

"  Iny  ?     You  mean  Miss  Wyverne  ?  " 
"Yes— Inez  her  name  is— the  same  name 
as  mine,  you  know,"  continued  Bessie,  gently 
and  sadly. 

"  The  same  as  yours  ! "  exclaimed  Sir 
Gwyn.  "Why,  I  thought  that  yours  was 
Elizabeth  ?  I  remember  Miss  Wyverne,  of 
course,  and  she  always  called  you  Bessie." 

As  Sir  Gwyn  uttered  this  name  there  was 
an  indescribable  tenderness  in  the  lone  of 
his  voice  which  did  not  by  any  means  escape 
the  notice  of  Miss  Bessie,  but  she  gave  no 
sign  to  that  effect.  She  merely  went  on,  in  a 
calm  way : 

"  Oh,  yes ;  she  always  insisted  on  calling 
me  Bessie.  She  said  it  was  awkward  for 
both  of  us  to  be  Iny.  My  name,  you  know, 
is  Inez  Elizabeth— Inez  Elizabeth  Mordaunt." 
"I  think  Inez  is  a  perfectly  beautiful 
name,"  said  Sir  Gwyn,  enthusiastically. 

" So  do  I,  surely,"  said  Bessie ;  "it  is  so 
entirely.  In  France  they  all  called  me  Inez, 
but  dear,  darling  Iny  set  the  fashion  of  call 
ing  me  Bessie;  and,  after  all,  it  would  have 
been  awkward  to  have  two  iu  the  house 


named  Inez,  and  so  it  was  nothing  else  but 
Bessie,  Miss  Bessie,  and  so  I  grew  to 
love  that  name,  because  I  loved  so  the  dear, 
darling  friends  who  called  me  by  it.  Still,  I 
think  Inez  is  awfully  lovely,  and  it's  uncom 
mon  and  romantic.  Dear,  darling  Iny  and  I 
are  second  cousins,  and  Inez  is  a  family 
name,  you  know,  so  we  both  had  it." 

All  this  was  news  to  Sir  Gwyn,  of  course, 
who,  as  he  said,  had  heard  her  called  "Bes 
sie,"  and  had  always  thought  of  her-  under 
that  name.  Still,  "  Inez  "  was  undeniably  a 
beautiful  name,  and  Miss  Mordaunt  was  no 
less  lovely  under  this  sweet  foreign  name 
than  she  had  been  under  the  plainer  one  of 
"Bessie."  He  lamented  that  he  was  not  at 
liberty  to  make  use  of  either  one  of  these 
names  and  call  her  by  it.  The  time  for  that, 
however,  had  hardly  come  as  yet,  and  he 
could  only  indulge  iu  the  hope  that  it  might 
come  before  very  long. 

This  preference  which  Bessie  expressed 
for  the  name  "Inez,"  was  also  sanctioned 
and  solemnly  confirmed  by  Mrs.  Ilickg  Lu- 
grin,  who  said,  in  her  characteristic  manner: 
"  My  dear,  your  preference  is  every  way 
justifiable,  and  you  should  insist  now  on  all 
your  friends  calling  you  by  the  name  for 
which  you  yourself  have  so  decided  a  prefer 
ence." 

When  Sir  Gwyn    at   length  took  his  de- 
>arture,  it  was  in  a  state  of  mind  that  may 
be  described  as  made  up  of  exultation,  expcc- 
ation,   anticipation,  elevation,  nnd  all  other 
'ations"  which  go  to  set  forth  the  state  of 
mind  which  humanity  experiences  under  the 
stimulus   of  Love's   young  dream.     Already, 
n  that  London  season  above  referred  to,  he 
had  been  smitten  with  Bessie's  charms  ;  and, 
though  her  absence  had  weakened  this  effect 
to  some  extent,  yet  now  the  sight  of  her  face 
more   than   revived   these  old  feelings.     The 
circumstances  under  which  he  now  saw  her 
tended  to  deepen  this  effect.     She  was  in  a 
quasi   state   of    mourning.      She   announced 
that  she  intended  to  keep  herself  secluded, 
for  a  time  at  least,  and  avoid  the  gayetics  of 
society.      Her   "mourning"   was    thus    deep 
enough  to  keep  her  restricted  within  the  very 
sphere  where  she  would  be  most  accessible 
to  him.     Her  face  now  seemed  to  him  more 
piquant    than    ever ;     the    perpetual    smile 
which  Nature  had  stamped  upon  her  lips  did 
not    readily    adapt    itself  to   a    sombre  ex 
pression  of  grief ;  and  thus  Bessie's  attempts 


80 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


to  look  bereaved  and  afflicted  were  only  suc 
cessful  in  so  far  as  they  served  to  call  up  to 
her  face  a  new  expression,  and  one,  too,  of  a 
very  attractive  kind.  The  circumstances  that 
had  thus  brought  her  here  and  given  him 
such  access  to  her,  could  not  be  regarded  by 
him  with  any  other  feelings  than  those  of  the 
deepest  satisfaction;  and  he  determined  to 
avail  himself  to  the  very  utmost  of  the  rare 
privileges  which  chance  had  accorded  to 
him. 

And  so  Sir  Gwyn,  on  the  very  next  day, 
found  a  pretext  for  riding  over  to  Mordaunt 
31anor.  He  found  Bessie  as  cordial  as  ever. 

She  received  him  with  a  smile,  that  be 
witched  him,  and  with  a  simple,  frank  friend 
liness  that  was  most  touching.  She  told  him 
it  was  "  awfully  kind  "  in  him  to  come  to  see 
her  again  when  she  was  so  lonely.  She  re 
marked  that  Mordaunt  Manor  was  "  awfully 
stupid,"  with  other  things  of  the  same  kind. 
Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin  also  chimed  in  with  simi 
lar  sentiments.  On  this  visit  Sir  Gwyn  ven 
tured  to  hint  at  a  drive  through  the  country. 
Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin  thought  that  it  would  bene 
fit  Bessie's  health,  and  that  a  companion  like 
Sir  Gwyn,  who  knew  all  the  history  of  the 
county,  would  be  a  benefit  to  the  minds  of 
both  of  them. 

The  drive  was  very  successful,  and  was 
repeated.  In  a  few  days  Bessie  went  out 
riding  with  Sir  Gwvn,  first  confining  herself 
to  the  park,  and  afterward  going  into  the 
outer  world.  Then  it  began  to  be  interrupted, 
for  the  great  world  was  in  motion,  and  every 
body  who  pretended  to  be  anybody  was  hur 
rying  to  Mordaunt  Manor  to  welcome  its  lovely 
young  mistress  to  her  ancestral  home  and  to 
her  native  county. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE     LOST     ONE    FOUND. 

FROM  what  has  been  related  it  will  be  seen 
that  Miss  Bessie  had  experienced  a  great 
change  in  her  life,  having  thus  suddenly  ad 
vanced  from  the  position  of  certainly  not 
much  more  than  ward  to  the  conspicuous  ele 
vation  which  was  given  by  becoming  mis 
tress  of  Mordaunt  Manor.  Nor  in  coming  to 
what  she  called  her  ancestral  home  did  she 
find  any  lack  of  any  thing  which  she  might 
have  conceived  of  as  necessary  to  the  gran 


deur  of  her  position.  There  was  the  Hall  it- 
self,  and  the  broad  estate,  and  every  thing 
orresponded,  without  and  within.  Troops 
of  servants  stood  ready  to  do  the  slightest 
bidding  of  their  young  mistress;  men-ser 
vants  and  maid-servants,  footmen,  grooms, 
coachmen,  pages,  appeared  before  her  wher 
ever  she  wandered.  Prominent  among  these 
were  several  dignified  functionaries — the  but 
ler  first ;  then  the  French  chef  de  cuisine  and 
the  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Spiller.  Over  all  these 
Miss  Bessie  reigned  as  queen ;  while,  as  her 
prime-minister,  Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin  stood  at 
her  side  to  give  her  counsel,  or  to  carry  into 
execution  her  wishes.  Thus  Mordaunt  Manor, 
on  once  more  being  open  to  the  great  world, 
appeared  fully  equipped.  During  the  years 
in  which  it  had  been  closed  every  thing  had 
been  managed  with  the  utmost  care;  and 
now  it  seemed  about  to  enter  upon  a  new  ca 
reer,  under  auspices  at  least  as  brilliant  as 
any  which  it  had  ever  known. 

As  the  eye  of  the  great  world  thus  came 
to  turn  itself  upon  the  young  mistress  of 
Mordaunt  Hall,  and  to  subject  her  to  its  scru 
tinizing  gaze  and  its  cold  criticism,  Bessie 
bore  the  ordeal  in  a  manner  which  could  not 
be  surpassed  if  she  had  been  trained  all  her 
life  for  this  very  thing.  Perfectly  calm  and 
self-possessed,  she  yet  showed  nothing  which 
was  in  any  way  inconsistent  with  the  most 
sensitive  delicacy  and  maiden  modesty ;  she 
appeared  like  the  type  of  innocence  and 
self-poise  combined;  and  around  all  this- 
was  thrown  the  charm  of  her  rare  and  ra 
diant  beauty.  Society,  which  thus  came  to 
criticise,  remained  to  admire ;  so  beautiful, 
and  at  the  same  time  so  wealthy  an  heiress 
had  but  seldom  been  seen ;  and  she  was  evi 
dently  one  who  was  adapted  to  shine  in  the 
lofty  sphere  to  which  she  had  been  born. 
Society  thus  took  note  of  all  her  charms. 
Society  decided  that  Miss  Bessie  had  a  re 
markably  tender  and  affectionate  nature.  So 
ciety  noticed  the  slight  touch  of  Irish  brogue 
in  her  accent,  and  thought  that  it  added 
a  zest  to  her  already  bewitching  manner. 
Society  also  noticed  the  attentions  of  Sir 
Gwyn  Ruthven,  and  smiled  approvingly.  It 
was  without  doubt  a  most  excellent  and  suit 
able  thing  ;  and,  if  Sir  Gwyn  Ruthven  could 
win  her,  the  match  would  be  unexceptionable. 
The  two  largest  estates  in  the  county  already 
adjoined  one  another ;  and  this  would  unite 
them  into  one  magnificent  property.  Society, 


THE   LOST   ONE   FOUND. 


81 


in  fact,  admired  this  prospect  so  very  greatly 
that  it  unanimously  declared  Sir  Gwyn's  at 
tentions  to  be  "  really  quite  providential." 

The  blandishments  of  the  great  world  and 
the  devoted  attentions  of  Sir  Gwyn  Ruthven 
did  not  make  up  the  whole  of  Bessie's  life, 
however.  One  part  of  it  was  taken  up  in  a 
correspondence  which,  though  not  large,  was 
yet  of  immense  importance.  It  was  not 
large,  for  it  consisted  of  but  one  letter  every 
other  day  or  so,  yet  that  one  letter  was  so 
important  that  most  of  her  time  Avhen  alone 
was  taken  up  with  the  study  of  it,  and  with 
writing  her  answer.  The  letter  which  she 
Bent  in  reply  was  always  dropped  into  the 
mail-bag  with  her  own  hand,  and  it  always 
bore  the  same  address — Kevin  Magrath. 

Several  weeks  of  Bessie's  new  life  passed 
away,  and  at  length,  one  day,  she  received  a 
letter  from  this  one  correspondent  which  con 
veyed  intelligence  of  such  unusual  importance 
to  her  that  she  remained  most  of  her  time  in 
her  room  with  the  letter  before  her,  ponder 
ing  over  its  startling  intelligence.  To  Sir 
Gwyn,  who  called  on  her  as  usual,  she  did 
not  deny  herself,  but  appeared  as  animated, 
as  careless,  and  as  joyous  as  usual ;  but,  after 
his  departure,  she  once  more  sought  her  own 
apartment,  and  there  sat  motionless  for 
hours,  with  the  letter  in  her  hands,  plunged 
into  the  deepest  thought,  and  with  such  an 
expression  of  anxiety  on  her  brow,  and  such 
a  deep  abstraction  in  her  gaze,  that  if  Sir 
Gwyn  Ruthven  could  have  seen  her  he  would 
scarce  have  been  able  to  recognize  the  face 
of  the  smiling,  joyous,  exuberant,  and  careless 
girl,  whose  image  had  been  stamped  so  deeply 
upon  his  memory,  and  upon  his  heart. 

After  receiving  that  letter,  Bessie  sat  up 
late  into  the  night,  and  it  was  well  advanced 
toward  morning  when  she  wrote  a  reply.  She 
then  retired,  slept  a  few  hours,  and,  after  ris 
ing  and  taking  a  slight  breakfast,  she  went 
herself,  as  usual,  to  mail  her  letter. 

About  a  week  after  this,  a  gentleman 
drove  up  to  the  gates  of  Mordaunt  Park. 
Dismounting  from  his  carriage,  which  was 
evidently  a  hired  one,  he  paid  the  driver,  who 
at  once  returned  in  the  direction  of  Keswick. 
Upon  this  the  gentleman  went  to  the  porter's 
lodge  and  stood  talking  for  a  few  minutes 
with  the  porter. 

This  new-comer  was  a  man  of  medium 
stature,  with  dark  complexion,  which  had  a 
Bun-browned,  weather-beaten  appearance,  like 


the  face  of  a  sailor ;  but  the  refinement  of  tha 
features,  and  a  certain  indescribable  some 
thing  in  the  expression,  showed  that  he  was 
something  very  different.  His  dress  showed 
him  to  be  a  clergyman.  He  had  heavy  eye 
brows,  from  beneath  which  glowed  piercing 
black  eyes.  His  jaw  was  square  and  mas 
sive,  and  yet,  in  spite  of  these  signs  of 
strength,  vigor,  and  resolute  will,  the  preva 
lent  expression  of  his  face  was  one  of  gentle 
ness  ;  and  there  were  sufficient  indications 
there  of  a  nature  which  was  full  of  warm  hu 
man  sympathies.  His  hair  was  sprinkled 
with  gray,  and  he  seemed  somewhere  between 
fifty  and  sixty  years  of  age.  He  walked  with 
a  slow  pace,  and  in  his  gait  and  in  his  man 
ner  there  were  certain  unmistakable  signs  of 
feebleness. 

This  man  stood  talking  with  the  porter 
for  some  time,  and  at  length,  having  satisfied 
himself,  he  turned  away  and  walked  up  the 
avenue  toward  the  Hall.  He  walked  slowly, 
and  with  feeble  steps,  as  has  been  said,  and 
used  a  cane,  which  he  carried  to  assist  his 
walk.  He  frequently  paused,  and  looked 
around  ;  but,  whether  this  was  through  cu 
riosity  or  through  weariness,  did  not  appear. 
At  length  he  came  within  sight  of  the  Hall. 
Here  there  was,  by  the  side  of  the  avenue 
and  under  the  trees,  a  rustic  seat,  and  upon 
this  the  clergyman  wearily  placed  himself. 

He  had  not  been  there  long,  when  the 
sounds  of  galloping  horses  arose  in  the  dis 
tance,  coming  apparently  from  somewhere 
down  the  avenue.  The  old  man  was  sitting 
on  the  rustic  seat,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
Mordaunt  Manor-house,  and  did  not  appear 
to  hear  these  sounds.  Soon,  however,  they 
drew  nearer  ;  and  at  length  a  gentleman  and 
lady  came  galloping  by,  on  their  way  to  the 
house.  The  gentleman  was  Sir  Gwyn  Ruth- 
ven.  The  lady  was  Bessie.  They  had  been 
riding.  Sir  Gwyn  did  not  notice  the  old 
man,  being  too  much  absorbed  in  his  fasci 
nating  companion  to  be  at  all  conscious  of 
any  other  thing;  nor  did  he  see  the  start 
which  the  old  man  gave,  and  the  eager  gaze 
which  he  directed  toward  them.  Bessie 
caught  one  glimpse  of  him  and  of  his  rapid 
gaze,  but  appeared  not  to  see  him,  for  she 
instantly  turned  her  eyes  away,  and  went 
speeding  past.  Thus,  to  the  old  man,  aa 
he  fixed  his  eyes  on  her,  there  appeared 
this  flitting  vision  of  loveliness ;  the  round, 
rosy,  dimpled  face,  the  sunny  blue  eyes,  the 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


beautiful  perpetual  smile,  and  the  gleaming 
golden  hair  of  the  young  heiress,  forming  an 
image  of  beauty  that  might  have  excited  the 
admiration  of  the  most  world-worn  or  the 
most  cold-hearted.  She  rode  with  admirable 
grace,  her  elegant  figure  seemed  formed  for 
horsemanship,  and,  thus  speeding  by,  she  was 
borne  swiftly  away  toward  the  house. 

The  old  man  still  sat,  and,  after  she  had 
dismounted,  and  had  disappeared  within,  he 
still  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  door-way 
through  which  she  had  vanished  from  his 
gaze.  An  hour  passed,  but  he  did  not  move. 
At  length,  Sir  Gwyn  reappeared  and  rode 
past  toward  the  gate.  Upon  this,  the  old 
man  rose  and  went  toward  the  house. 

Upon  Bessie's  return,  she  had  allowed  Sir 
Gwyn  to  bask  for  a  time  in  the  sunshine  of 
her  presence,  together  with  the  shadow  of 
the  presence  of  Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin,  and  had 
been  as  gay  and  as  charming  as  ever.  Upon 
his  departure,  however,  she  had  flown  at  once 
to  her  room.  Here  all  her  abstraction  re 
turned  ;  she  seated  herself  by  the  window, 
and  breathlessly  watched  the  movements  of 
the  old  man.  She  had  seen  him!  What 
would  he  do? 

She  saw  Sir  Gwyn  ride  past. 

She  saw  the  old  man  then  rise  and  walk 
toward  the  house.  Then  she  retreated  to  the 
middle  of  the  room  and  waited. 

A  servant  brought  up  a  card : 

"  M.  I1  Abbe  BcrnaL" 

Bessie  took  it  in  silence,  and  looked  at  it 
carefully. 

"  Tell  him  that  I  shall  be  down  presently," 
said  she,  very  quietly,  "  and  tell  Mrs.  Hicks 
Lugrin  that  I  should  be  obliged  to  her  if  she 
would  come  here." 

The  servant  retired. 

In  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Ilicks  Lugrin  en 
tered. 

Bessie  handed  her  the  card. 

Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin  read  it,  and  said  not  a 
word. 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  said  Bessie, 
"  that,  on  the  whole,  it  would  be  as  well, 
auntie,  if  you  were  not  to  be  present  at  our 
interview." 

"  Oh,  most  undoubtedly,"  said  Mrs.  Hicks 
Lugrin.  "  I  only  thought  that  perhaps  you 
might  require  my  presence  for  purposes  of 
corroboration  or  identification." 

"Never  a  bit,"  said  Bessie;  "trust  me 


for  that,  auntie.  Am  I  an  owl  ?  Sure,  ifs 
me  that's  well  able  to  take  care  of  myself 
without  any  help  at  all  at  all — and  there  ye 
have  it.  But  it's  really  getting  awfully  ex 
citing,"  she  added,  in  a  different  tone,  "  and 
do  you  know,  auntie  dear,  I  really  begin  to 
feel  a  little  nervous  ?  " 

Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin  said  nothing,  and  Bes 
sie  soon  after  went  down  to  the  drawing- 
room. 

The  old  man  was  seated  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  with  his  face  turned  toward  the 
door.  As  she  entered,  she  saw  his  face,  fig 
ure,  and  expression,  most  distinctly.  A  win 
dow  which  was  on  his  left  threw  light  upon 
him,  and  gave  the  most  distinct  view  possi 
ble.  She  herself  also,  as  she  came  in,  was 
revealed  to  him  as  fully  and  completely.  She 
came  in  as  light  as  a  dream,  with  her  ethereal 
beauty,  her  large,  tender,  deep-blue  eyes,  her 
golden  hair,  her  dimpled  cheeks,  her  sweet 
smile  of  innocence;  there  was  on  her  face 
a  simple  expression  of  courteous  inquiry, 
blended  with  gracious  welcome ;  and,  with 
this  on  her  face,  she  looked  at  him  steadily, 
wilh  the  fixed  glance  of  an  innocent  child, 
and  came  toward  him. 

He  rose  and  bowed ;  then  she  sat  down, 
and  he  resumed  his  seat,  drawing  himself 
nearer  to  her  as  he  did  so.  He  then  looked 
at  her  earnestly  for  some  time.  He  appeared 
agitated.  His  hands  trembled ;  there  was  a 
certain  solemn  sadness  and  melancholy  on 
his  face. 

"  And  you  are  Inez  ?  "  he  at  length  said, 
in  a  tremulous  voice. 

At  this,  there  came  up  in  Bessie's  face 
the  deep,  wondering  look  which  often  arose 
in  her  eyes.  She  said,  softly : 

"  Inez  Mordaunt." 

"  Inez  Mordaunt  ?  "  repeated  the  old  man, 
"  I  saw  you  when  you  were  a  child.  I — I 
knew  your — your  parents.  You  have  changed 
so  much  that  I  should  not  have  recognized 
you,  and  you  do  not  look  like  either  of  your 
parents." 

"How  very  funny!"  said  Bessie;  "and 
did  you  really  see  me  ?  and  so  long  ago  ? 
Indeed,  then,  and  it's  true  what  you  say,  that 
I've  changed ;  for,  when  I  was  a  child,  my 
hair  and  eyes  were  darker.  I've  got  some  of 
my  hair  now — cut  off  by  poor  dear  darling 
mamma — and  really  do  you  know  it's  quite 
brown  ?  and  isn't  it  funny,  when  I'm  such  a 
blonde  now  ?  " 


THE  LOST   ONE  FOUND. 


83 


A  melancholy  smile  came  upon  the  old 
man's  face,  and  a  look  of  tenderness  appeared 
in  his  eyes  as  he  listened  to  Bessie's  prat 
tle. 

"  And  you  are  Inez?  "  he  said  once  more, 
slowly,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  which  was  full 
of  indescribable  pathos. 

Bessie  said  nothing,  but  smiled  sweetly. 

Thus  far  this  interview  had  certainly  been 
an  unusual  one.  The  old  man's  address  had 
been  abrupt  and  odd  in  the  extreme.  Evi 
dently  he  had  no  desire  to  be  otherwise  than 
courteous ;  and  yet  his  manner  showed  a 
strange  lack  of  the  commonest  observances 
of  civility.  Bessie,  on  her  part,  showed  her 
self  quite  at  her  ease ;  altogether  frank,  un 
conventional,  and  communicative.  She  evinced 
no  surprise  whatever  at  the  old  man's  singular 
mode  of  address,  but  accepted  it  as  a  matter 
of  course,  and  certainly  such  a  reception  by 
her  was  quite  as  extraordinary  as  the  be 
havior  of  the  visitor. 

"  You  don't  know  me,"  said  the  stranger  ; 
"  you  do  not  recognize  the  name  which  I  sent 
up.  I  wonder  if  it  is  possible  for  you  to  guess 
the  errand  upon  which  I  have  come  ?  I  won 
der  how  you  will  bear  the  news  which  I  have 
to  tell  ?  " 

He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  profound  sadness, 
yet  infinite  sweetness  and  tenderness,  fixing 
upon  Bessie  the  same  gentle  and  loving  look 
which  he  had  already  turned  toward  her. 
Bessie  looked  back  at  him  inquiringly,  and 
now  a  change  came  gradually  over  her  own 
face. 

"  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,"  she  said,  in  a 
faltering  voice.  "  You  seem  to  have  some 
thing  dreadful  on  your  mind;  and  I  don't  re 
member  ever  seeing  you  in  all  my  life.  Oh, 
what  is  it  ?  Tell  me,  and  do  not — oh,  do 
not! — keep  me  in  suspense.  It's  something 
awful ;  I  know  it  is.  It  is  some  sad  news  !  " 

As  Bessie  said  this,  a  sudden  expression 
of  terror  passed  across  her  face,  and  she 
clasped  her  hands  and  Started  back. 

"  Do  you  remember  your  parents  ?  "  asked 
the  old  man,  in  the  same  tone,  and  regarding 
her  with  the  same  look. 

"  My  parents  ?  "  said  Bessie.  "  Oh,  no- 
only  a  little.  My  dear,  darling  mamma  died 
when  I  was  only  three  years  old ;  and  my 
poor  dear  papa  left  me  then,  and  went  away 
somewhere,  and  died.  And  I  have  often 
rrept — oh,  how  bitterly!— as  I  thought  of 
those  darling  ones— lost  entirely— that  I  was 


never  going  to  see  again  at  all,  at  all !  And, 
do  you  know,  really,  it's  quite  awful  ?  " 

Bessie  sighed,  and  rubbed  her  little  hand 
kerchief  over  her  bright-blue  eyes. 

The  old  man's  eyes  now  seemed  to  devour 
her,  as  they  rested  upon  her  in  the  intensity 
of  their  gaze.  There  was  also  in  them  a  cer 
tain  expression  of  longing,  yearning  love — 
something  deeper  than  any  thing  which  had 
yet  appeared,  and  vet  something  which  was 
the  natural  development  of  that  gentleness 
and  tenderness  with  which  he  had  gazed  at 
her  from  the  first. 

It  cost  him  an  effort  to  speak. 

"  Your  parents,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  did  not  both  die.  Your  father  did  not — " 

"No,"  said  Bessie;  "poor  dear  papa,  as 
I  was  saying,  was  so  upset  by  the  death  of 
poor  dear,  darling  mamma  that  he  left  the 
country,  and  died  abroad,  so  he  did.  And, 
oh !  it  is  so  very,  very  sad ! " 

The  old  man's  eyes  glistened.  "Was  it  a 
tear  that  trembled  there  ? 

"Your  father."  said  he,  in  tremulous 
tones,  "  did  not  die.  He — is — alive." 

"Oh,  really,  now,"  said  Bessie,  "you're 
altogether  wrong,  you  know.  Pardon  me — 
but  I  ought  to  know,  when  I've  been  mourn 
ing  over  him  all  my  life.  Sorrow  a  day  has 
passed  that  I  haven't  felt  what  it  is  to  be  an 
orphan  !  It's  fairly  heart-broke  with  grief  I 
am  when  I  think  of  it.  And  then,  you  know, 
it  was  so  very,  very  hard  for  poor  darling 
papa  to  go  and  die  so  far,  so  very  far 
away  ! " 

"  It  was  all  wrong ;  it  was  all  a  mistake," 
said  the  old  man,  drawing  his  chair  nearer, 
and  looking  at  her  with  more  longing  eye?, 
and  speaking  in  more  tremulous  tones.  "  It 
was  a  false  report.  He  was  on  his  way  East. 
He  was  very  ill  at  Alexandria.  It  was  the 
plague.  But  he  recovered.  Ho  had  given 
up  the  world,  and  so  he  never  wrote.  But 
he  did  not  die — " 

"Sure,  then,"  interrupted  Bessie,  "he 
might  have  dropped  a  line  to  me.  Oh,  if  I 
could  but  have  heard  from  him  only  one 
word!  And  me  all  alone  in  the  wide  world 
— none  to  love  me — none  for  me  to  love — an 
orphan  !  It  was  heart-breaking  entirely,  so 
it  was  ;  and  really,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  I 
wonder  how  I  was  able  to  bear  up." 

Again  Bessie  rubbed  her  eyes. 

The  old  man  said  nothing  for  some  time, 
He  was  struggling  with  profound  emotion, 


84 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


and  for  a  few  minutes  was  quite  unable  to 
speak. 

"  Inez ! "  said  he  at  last,  in  a  voice  deep, 
low,  tremulous  with  unutterable  tenderness. 

At  this  Bessie  looked  up  with  the  same 
frightened  face  which  she  had  shown  a  short 
time  before. 

"Inez,"  said  the  old  man,  "it  was  hard 
for  you  to  be  left  so  many  years  alone,  as 
you  thought,  in  the  world ;  but  the  reasons 
will  all  be  explained  some  day.  Your  father, 
Inez — your  father  now  mourns  over  this,  and 
sees  that  he  indulged  a  selfish  grief,  and  was 
too  forgetful  of  you  in  one  sense,  though  he 
never  ceased,  even  in  his  deepest  grief,  to 
love  you  passionately — you  and  that  other 
dear  one,  your  sister.  But  now,  Inez — now 
it  is  over.  Your  father  has  come  back  to 
you.  Look,  Inez — look  at  me !  I  am  changed, 
I  know.  Look !  Do  you  not  see  something 
in  my  face  that  you  remember  ?  " 

At  this  Bessie  rose  from  her  chair,  clasped 
her  hands,  stared  at  him,  and  started  back  a 
few  paces. 

Tears  fell  from  the  old  man's  eyes. 
"  Inez ! "  he  said,  and  then  was  silent. 
"0   sir!    what  do  you  mean  by  this?" 
cried  Bessie.     "  Is  this  real  ?     Do  you  mean 
it  ?     In  Heaven's  name,  is  this  true  ?     You 
are  mocking  me.    How  can  I  know  it  ?    How 
can  I  believe  it  ?     And  so  sudden ! " 

"Inez!"  said  the  old  man  again  ;  "it  is 
all  true.  I  tell  you  that  I  am  your  father  !  " 

Bessie  now  stared  at  him,  and  her  face 
underwent  several  very  remarkable  changes. 
It  was  a  face  so  mobile  and  so  expressive 
that  it  was  wonderful  how  strongly  the  feel 
ings  that  she  might  wish  to  show  were  shown 
forth  there.  First,  then,  came  surprise,  then 
fear,  then  timid  hope,  then  joy.  The  old  man 
watched  all  these  changes  breathlessly,  and 
with  tremulous  agitation.  At  last,  Bessie 
seemed  to  comprehend  the  truth;  and,  as 
this  last  joyous  change  came  over  her  elo 
quent  face,  she  sprung  forward,  and  flung 
herself  into  the  old  man's  arms. 

And  Bernal  Mordaunt  pressed  her  to  his 
heart,  and  kissed  her  tenderly,  and  murmured 
words  of  love  over  her  fair  young  head : 

"  Inez !  my  own  Inez !  my  daughter  !  my 
darling !  I  have  found  you  at  last,  and  we 
must  never  part  again ! " 


CHAPTER  XX. 

AT  HOME. 

THUS  it  was,  then,  that  Bernal  Mordaunt, 
after  so  long  an  absence,  came  back  to  his 
own  home. 

The  joy  of  this  meeting  filled  all  his 
heart,  and  he  surrendered  himself  to  it  com 
pletely.  The  sadness  which  years  had  stamped 
upon  his  face  was  succeeded  by  the  sunshine 
of  happiness ;  and  he  could  not  remove  his 
loving  gaze  from  Bessie's  face.  She,  on  her 
part,  conducted  herself  admirably ;  and  there 
was  no  lack  of  tender  caresses,  and  of  all  the 
manifold  signs  of  filial  affection  with  which  a 
loving  daughter  should  receive  a  father  so 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  restored.  Bes 
sie's  whole  nature  seemed  singularly  gentle, 
and  tender,  and  feminine,  and  soft,  and  ca 
ressing;  and  so  her  father,  after  years  of 
exile  and  sorrow,  found  himself  at  last  once 
more  in  the  possession  of  those  sweet,  domes 
tic  joys  which  he  had  thought  were  lost 
forever. 

Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin  was  very  properly  over 
whelmed  with  surprise  when  she  learned  what 
had  happened ;  but  Bernal  Mordaunt,  who  had 
been  informed  of  her  office  in  the  household, 
greeted  her  with  warm  yet  gentle  courtesy,  as 
his  daughter's  friend  and  benefactor. 

There  was  a  whole  world  of  things  to  be 
talked  over  between  these  two — Bessie  and 
Mordaunt — and  each  had  something  to  tell  to 
satisfy  the  curious  inquiries  of  the  other. 

"  Do  you  not  remember  me  at  all,  dearest 
daughter — not  at  all  ?  "  was  a  frequent  in- 
quiry  made  by  Mordaunt. 

"  Well,  only  just  a  little  bit — a  little  tiny, 
tiny  bit,  papa  dearest,"  said  Bessie.  "  You 
know  I  was  only  three  years  old  when  you 
left;  and  I  only  remember  a  dark -haired, 
handsome  man;  but  now  you're  not  dark- 
haired  at  all,  at  all — that  is,  at  any  rate  it's 
as  gray  as  it  is  dark,  now  isn't  it,  papa  dear 
est  ?  And,  besides,  you  would  never  have 
known  me,  for  I'm  so  awfully  changed,  if  you 
had  seen  me  anywhere  else,  you  know — now 
would  you,  papa  dearest  ?  " 

And  Bernal  Mordaunt,  looking  at  her  lov 
ingly,  could  only  say : 

"  Well,  dear  child,  I  must  confess  that  the 
Inez  I  expected  to  see  was  different  from 


you 


Bessie  gave    a  gentle   sigh.      Then  she 


AT   HOME. 


85 


smiled.       Then    she    stooped    forward    an( 
kissed  his  forehead. 

"But  you  love  your  poor  little  Inez  al 
the  same,  if  she  has  grown  to  be  an  uglj 
little  blonde — now  don't  you,  papa  dearest  ?  ' 
Mordaunt  stroked  her  head  fondly. 
"  Ah,  my  child  ! "  said  he,  "  I  take  you  as 
you  are,  and  thank  Heaven  for  finding  you  so 
loving  and  so  dear.  Sorrow  and  hardship, 
dearest  Inez,  have  made  your  father  a  very 
different  man  from  the  one  you  remember, 
and  the  father  who  comes  back  to  you  has 
not  long  to  live." 

"  0  papa  !  "  murmured  Bessie — "  0  papa  ! 
dearest,  dearest  papa,  don't — don't — don't 
talk  so  !  You  really  almost  make  me  cry." 

Mordaunt  looked  at  her  lovingly.  Such 
affection  as  this,  so  tender,  so  devoted,  was 
sweet  indeed  to  him. 

Mordaunt's  account  of  his  past  life  was 
not  a  very  long  one.  It  was  the  death  of  his 
wife  that  had  been  the  cause  of  his  departure 
from  home,  as  Bessie  already  knew.  Before 
that  he  had  lived  a  life  of  unalloyed  happi 
ness  and  prosperity;  living  in  splendor  at 
Mordaunt  Manor,  and  holding  a  leading  posi 
tion  in  the  county.  From  all  this  the  death 
of  his  wife  had  suddenly  dashed  him  down. 
He  had  been  passionately  attached  to  her. 
Her  death  had  been  very  sudden.  In  an  in 
stant  all  interest  in  life  was  lost,  and  all  the 
sweetness  and  light  of  existence  died  out  ut 
terly,  and  were  buried  in  her  grave. 

A  resolution  was  then  taken  by  him, 
which,  under  such  circumstances,  was  not  by 
any  means  so  unusual  as  may  be  supposed. 
It  was  to  devote  himself  to  a  religious  life 
for  the  rest  of  his  days.  He  was  a  Eoman 
Catholic,  and  his  Church  afforded  ample  op 
portunities  for  the  gratification  of  such  a 
wish  as  this.  His  devotion  to  religion  was 
profound  and  earnest.  To  him,  in  his  dark 
and  bitter  grief,  religion  alone  gave  him  any 
consolation;  and  amid  such  consolations  he 
sought  to  bury  himself.  He  flung  himself 
into  the  arms  of  the  Church.  He  became  a 
priest.  Finally,  in  order  to  carry  out  to  the 
farthest  his  new  desires,  he  sought  to  become 
a  missionary  to  heathen  countries.  This  de 
sire  was  gratified  without  any  very  great  dif 
ficulty. 

At  the  outset  he  had  taken  steps  to  secure 
a  fitting  home  for  his  children ;  and  for  this 
purpose  had  applied  to  Mr.  Hennigar  Wy- 
verne,  who  was  an  intimate  friend,  and  was 


also,  a  connection.  This  gentleman  had  con* 
sented  to  do  what  Mordaunt  requested,  and 
was  appointed  guardian  of  the  Mordaunt  chil 
dren,  and  trustee  of  the  estate  till  they  should 
come  of  age.  It  was,  therefore,  with  a  feeling 
of  perfect  peace  on  his  children's  account  that 
he  had  gone  to  his  distant  field  of  labor. 
While  on  his  way  to  the  East  he  had  been 
attacked  by  the  plague  at  Alexandria,  and 
had  the  narrowest  possible  escape  from  death. 
Recovering,  he  had  resumed  his  journey,  and 
had  spent  many  years  in  India.  Finally,  his 
health  had  broken  down,  and  he  was  com 
pelled  to  return  to  Europe. 

Now,  no  sooner  had  his  back  been  turned 
upon  the  scene  of  his  labors  and  his  face  set 
toward  Europe,  than  there  arose  within  him 
a  great  longing  to  see  his  children,  or  at  least 
to  learn  what  had  become  of  them.  He  had 
given  himself  up  so  entirely  to  the  work 
which  he  had  imposed  upon  himself,  that  he 
had  held  no  communication  of  any  kind  with 
Mr.  Wyverne ;  and  so,  on  returning  home,  he 
was  in  perfect  ignorance  about  their  fate. 
He  remained  for  a  few  days  in  Rome,  and 
then  travelled  to  London.  He  had  to  visit 
Milan  and  Geneva  on  his  way.  This  took 
him  through  a  part  of  Switzerland,  and 
brought  him  to  Villeneuve.  There  he  was, 
without  knowing  it,  brought  face  to  face  with 
Wyverne  himself.  Not  until  he  reached  Par- 
s  had  he  learned  this,  and  then  it  was  only 
from  the  papers  and  from  certain  inquiries 
which  he  made  that  he  was  able  to  find  out  the 
truth.  This  discovery  was  a  most  distressing 
one.  He  longed  to  see  Wyverne,  but  now  it 
was  too  late.  He  hurried  back  to  Villeneuve, 
but  the  party  had  left,  and  the  remains  of  the 
dead  had  been  sent  forward  to  London.  He 
returned  to  Paris,  and  was  detained  there  by 
ecclesiastical  affairs  for  some  time,  after 
which  he  hurried  to  London. 

On  inquiring  at  Wyverne's  house,  he  found 
hat  Miss  Wyverne  had  gone  away,  and  that 
he  house  was  about  to  be  closed.  No  one 
jut  servants  were  there,  and  none  of  these 
ould  give  him  any  information.  After  la 
borious  inquiries,  he  was  able  to  find  out 
Vyverne's  solicitors,  and  called  on  them  for 
nformation  as  to  his  daughters.  But  the  in- 
brmation  which  they  gave  was  only  of  the 
most  general  character.  Their  relations  tow- 
rd  the  late  Mr.  Wyverne,  they  told  him,  were 
lot  at  all  confidential,  but  only  of  an  ordinary 
usiness  character;  and,  consequently,  they 


86 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


knew  nothing  about  his  private  affairs.  Some 
years  ago  they  had  heard  that  the  elder  Miss 
Mordaunt  had  died  abroad.  The  other  one 
they  believed  was  still  alive,  though  they 
knew  nothing  at  all  about  her. 

The  mournful  intelligence  of  the  death  of 
one  of  his  children  was  thus  the  first  definite 
information  which  he  had  received ;  and  beyond 
this  it  seemed  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to 
learn  any  thing.  But  his  desire  was  now 
stimulated,  if  possible,  still  more  to  learn  the 
whereabouts  of  his  surviving  child.  He  went 
back  once  more  to  Mr.  Wyverne's  house  to 
question  the  servants.  Most  of  them  were 
new  ones,  none  had  been  there  more  than 
three  years,  and  of  the  affairs  of  the  family 
they  knew  nothing,  except  what  they  had 
heard  as  the  gossip  of  their  predecessors. 
This  was  to  the  effect  that  Mrs.  Wyverne  had 
separated  from  her  husband  and  was  dead ; 
that  Miss  Wyverne  had  lived  at  a  boarding- 
school  until  the  last  year  or  so,  and  had  gone 
to  live  with  some  relatives,  they  knew  not 
where.  He  recalled  the  nnme  of  the  old 
house-keeper  who  had  once  been  there.  It 
was  Klein.  He  asked  after  her.  He  was 
informed  that  she  had  been  dismissed  for 
drunkenness.  This  was  all. 

He  now  sought  after  this  Mrs.  Klein. 
With  the  help  of  the  police,  he  at  last  found 
her  residence ;  but  from  the  woman  herself 
he  could  learn  absolutely  nothing.  This 
arose  partly  from  the  drunken  confusion  of 
her  brain,  but  partly  also  from  some  unac 
countable  suspicion  which  she  seemed  to  en 
tertain  that  he  was  meditating  some  injury  to 
Miss  Wyverne.  She  remained  obstinate  in 
her  stupid  unbelief  in  him,  and  from  her 
disjointed  and  incoherent  answers  he  could 
gather  nothing. 

After  this  there  remained  nothing  for  him 
but  to  go  to  Mordaunt  Manor.  At  Keswick 
he  had  learned  that  Miss  Mordaunt  had  re 
turned  home,  and  was  living  there  now.  This 
filled  him  with  hope,  and  he  had  come  on 
ward  without  delay.  The  concenlment  of  his 
name  arose  merely  from  the  desire  to  spare 
her  the  shock  that  might  arise  from  too  sud 
den  a  revelation,  and  also  from  a  desire  to  see 
how  far  she  might  remember  him. 

Such  was  the  substance  of  Mordaunt's 
story,  and,  of  course,  where  he  was  in  igno 
rance,  Bessie  was  able  to  give  him  all  the  in 
formation  that  he  desired. 

She  informed  him,  therefore,  that  Mr.  Wy 


verne  had  been  the  kindest,  the  most  affec 
tionate,  and  the  most  thoughtful  of  guardians ; 
that  he  had  sent  her  away  after  his  wife's  de 
parture  to  live  with  a  relative  of  his,  Mrs. 
Hicks  Lugriu ;  and  that  she  had  lived  with 
her  ever  since,  with  one  interruption.  A  year 
ago,  Mr.  Wyverne  had  invited  her  to  come 
and  stay  with  his  daughter  for  a  time ;  and 
she  had  been  travelling  with  them  when  he 
died.  She  informed  Mordaunt,  to  his  intense 
amazement,  that  she  had  been  at  Villeneuve 
at  the  time  of  Mr.  Wyverne's  death;  and, 
therefore,  that  they  must  have  been  in  close 
proximity  without  suspecting  it.  Mr.  Wy 
verne,  she  said,  had  suffered  for  years,  and 
had  been  sent  to  the  Continent  by  his  physi 
cians  as  a  last  resort.  About  Mrs.  Wyverne 
she  knew  nothing  whatever,  nor  had  Miss 
Wyverne  even  mentioned  her  name. 

About  Clara  Movdaunt  Bessie  had  but  lit 
tle  to  say.  Clara  had  been  very  much  older 
than  she  was,  nearly  ten  years,  and  had  been 
sent  to  a  boarding -school.  She  had  died 
there,  and  her  death  had  taken  place  about 
ten  years  ago. 

Bessie's  information,  meagre  as  it  was, 
gave  Mordaunt  all  that  he  could  learn  now, 
since  Mr.  Wyverne,  who  alone  could  tell  all, 
was  dead.  Her  story  was  interlarded  with 
characteristic  remarks  about  Mr.  Wyverne's 
kindness;  about  her  "  dear  auntie's"  affec 
tionate  care;  about  Miss  Wyverne's  gentle 
friendship,  and  her  deep  grief  over  her  fa 
ther's  death ;  and  about  her  own  joy  at  such 
an  unexpected  termination  to  her  own  troub 
les. 

"  And  as  for  poor,  dear,  darling  Iny,  you 
know,  she  has  the  same  name  that  I  have, 
papa  dearest,  and  isn't  that  funny  ?  and  she 
used  to  call  me  Bessie,  to  prevent  confusion, 
while  I  was  living  at  poor,  dear  Mr.  Wy 
verne's — she  was  the  dearest  and  best  of 
girls — and  oh,  so  affectionate.  It  almost 
killed  her,  papa  dear,  for  her  to  lose  her 
dear  papa.  And  wasn't  it  awfully  sad,  now  ? 
And  she  with  never  a  care  in  the  wide  world 
before  !  Oh,  but  it  was  myself  that  had  the 
sore  heart  for  her !  It  was  too  hard  for  her 
to  bear  that  same.  She  wasn't  the  one  that 
would  stand  grief  at  all  at  all !  And  no  more 
was  I,  by  the  same  token ;  but,  papa  dear,  real 
ly  you  know  it  seemed  worse  for  her,  because 
I  was  so  very,  very  young.  But  she  became 
quite  changed.  Her  grief  was  too  much  for 
her,  and  you  wouldn't  have  known  her.  For 


AT   HOME. 


87 


my  part,  I  should  have  stayed  with  her  till 
death,  but  I  saw  that  she  did  not  wish  to  have 
me;  in  fact,  she  herself  went  away  to  some 
of  her  friends,  and  wouldn't  let  me  go  with 
her,  though  I  wished  to  so.  But,  then,  I  need 
not  be  sorry  for  that,  for,  by  corning  here, 
I've  found  you  all  the  sooner — haven't  I,  papa 
dearest  ?  " 

While  talking  about  Yilleneuve,  Mordaunt 
informed  her  of  a  cross  which  he  had  lost, 
and  which  he  afterward  thought  had  been  lost 
there.  On  his  return  he  had  made  inquiries 
about  it,  but  without  effect.  No  one  had  seen 
it.  It  was  a  precious  relic — one  which  he  had 
got  made  in  memory  of  his  dear  wife,  and  had 
worn  ever  since. 

Of  this  cross  Bessie  knew  nothing  what 
ever. 

Mordaunt  also  mentioned  some  lockets 
which  he  had  left  with  Wyverne. 

"  They  were  three — one  of  my  wife  ;  one 
of  Clara ;  and  one  of  yourself,  Inez.     I  at  first 
took  them  with  me,  but  I  found  that  they 
only  served  as   reminders   of   my   incurable 
grief,  and  caused  a  distraction  to  my  thoughts 
and   affections,  which,   henceforth,   I   hoped 
would   be   centred    exclusively   on    religion. 
For  this  cause  I  made  a  final  sacrifice  of  my 
feelings,  and  concluded  to  leave  them  behind 
me.     I  sent  them  to  poor  Wyverne,  but  nev 
er  heard  from  him  about  them.     Did  you  ever 
Bee  them  ?     Did  he  ever  mention  them  ?  " 
Bessie  shook  her  head. 
"Oh,  no,  papa  dear;  no,  never.     For  you 
know,  of  course,  if  I  had  seen  them  ever,  I 
should  remember;   and  how  awfully  nice  it 
would  be  to  see  myself  how  I  looked  as  a 
child— and    only    three — and    much    darker 
than  I  am  now.     Only  fancy!     Oh,  but  it's 
a   strange   thing  entirely!     But,    of  course, 
poor,  dear  Mr.  Wyverne  could  never  have  re 
ceived  them,   you    know,   papa    dear— now, 
could  he  ?  " 

To  Mordaunt,  this  suggestion  seemed  a 
probable  one,  and  he  thought  that  Wyverne 
must  have  failed  to  receive  those  precious 
lockets,  for,  if  he  had,  he  would  certainly 
have  shown  them  to  his  dear  daughter. 

So  remarkable  an  event  as  the  return  of 
Bernal  Mordaunt  after  so  long  an  absence,  and 
after  a  general  belief  in  his  death,  could  not 
be  long  unknown.  Society  hastened  to  offer 
its  congratulations,  and  to  welcome  the  wan 
derer  back  to  its  fold.  But  the  wanderer  did 
not  show  any  very  strong  desire  to  be  wel 


comed.     Society  soon  became  aware  of  the 
fact  that  Bernal   Mordaunt  was  desirous  of 
quiet  and  seclusion.     The  sorrows  and  hard- 
ships. of  years  had  produced  their  natural  ef 
fect  upon  his  constitution,  and  he  felt  himself 
to  be,  as  he  told  Bessie,  a  broken  man.  Aside 
from  this,  the  profession  which  he  had  adopt 
ed,  and  the  life  that  he  had  lived,  had  drawn 
him  away  altogether  from  the  great  world ; 
nor  could  he  any  longer  bring  himself  to  feel 
any  sympathy  with  that  world,  or  its  tastes, 
or  its  ways.     What  had  he,  the  world-worn 
man,  the  missionary  priest — what  had  he  in 
common  with  a  gay,  thoughtless,  and  frivo 
lous  crowd;  with  a  society  as  light  and  shal 
low  as  that  which  he  saw  around  him  ?     But 
there  were  yet  a  number  of  his  old  friends 
living  who  heard  of  his  return  with  joy,  and 
hastened  to  greet  him.     These,   of  course, 
were   different   from    the   common   run,  and 
Mordaunt  received  them  with  unfeigned  pleas 
ure  and  cordiality.     Yet  even  these  visitors 
could  not  help  seeing  that  the  old  Bernal  Mor 
daunt  lived  no  longer.     This  man  Avas  like 
another  person;  his  sympathies,  and  tastes, 
and  feelings,  had  all  changed.     A  few  words 
of  conversation  about  the  old  days  served  to 
exhaust  the  subject  of  the  past';    and  then 
there  remained  no  subject  of  common  interest 
in  the  present.     So,  though  Bernal  Mordaunt 
tried  to  be  cordial,  and  his  old  friends  tried 
to  be  enthusiastic,  yet  the  conditions  of  each 
had  so  changed  that  a  feeling  of  dissatisfac 
tion  was  the  only  result. 

Bernal  Mordaunt  thus  showed  no  desire 
to  regain  that  position  in  the  great  world 
which  had  once  been  his;  and  might  now  be 
his  if  he  had  chosen  to  claim  it.  lie  hai 
come  home  as  a  broken-down  man,  and  he 
wished  to  remain  home  as  quietly  as  possible. 
The  calm  of  domestic  joys,  the  dear  delight 
of  a  daughter's  fond  affection,  these  were  the 
only  things  which  he  now  valued.  A  return 
to  Mordaunt  Manor  brought  back  old  associa 
tions,  and  revived  all  those  memories  which 
the  years  had  only  partially  dimmed.  Bessie 
became  more  beloved,  more  dear,  and  more 
precious  to  him  every  day.  The  old  man  had 
only  this  one  object  in  all  the  world  to  love, 
and  upon  her  he  lavished  all  his  affections! 
For  her  part,  it  must  be  confessed  that  no 
daughter  could  have  been  more  affectionate, 
more  attentive,  more  watchful  of  every  mood 
of  his,  more  solicitous  of  his  comfort.  She 
gave  herself  up  to  him  completely. 


88 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


There  was  an  incessant  vigilance  in  Bes 
sie's  watchful  care  of  Mordaunt  which  sur 
prised  and  delighted  him,  exciting  his  tender- 
est  gratitude,  and  leading  to  most  touching 
expressions  of  affection  on  his  part.  Even 
Sir  Gwyn  was  now  put  in  a  secondary  place. 
Bernal  Mordaunt  was  supreme  in  Mordaunt 
Manor.  Bessie  was  his  daughter  and  his 
slave.  Sir  Gwyn  saw  the  new  idol  of  Bessie's 
heart,  and  had  nothing  to  say  or  do  but  join 
in  the  common  reverence.  And  this  he  did 
honestly  and  cordially. 

The  fact  is,  there  never  was  a  better  fel 
low  than  this  same  Sir  Gwyn  Ruthven.  He 
was  desperately  in  love  with  Bessie  by  this 
time,  and,  though  no  formal  declaration  had 
as  yet  escaped  his  lips,  still  there  was  an  evi 
dent  understanding  between  them,  and  he  felt 
that  Bessie  was  aware  of  his  feelings  and  de- 
eires.  Now  it  happened  that  Bernal  Mor 
daunt  had  come  home  at  the  very  juncture 
when  he  wished  to  have  Bessie  most  to  him 
self,  and  the  most  critical  time  for  his  own 
prospects.  Still  the  young  fellow  scarcely 
complained,  even  to  himself.  The  restoration 
of  a  father,  long  mourned  as  dead,  seemed  to 
him  to  be  an  event  which  could  be  thought 
of  with  no  other  feelings  than  those  of  sol 
emn  joy ;  and  Bernal  Mordaunt  had  that  in 
his  face  which  excited  in  the  mind  of  the 
young  man  the  deepest  reverence  and  even 
affection.  Among  those  who  greeted  Bernal 
Mordaunt  none  was  so  cordial,  so  sincere,  and 
so  respectful,  as  Sir  Gwyn. 

Bernal  Mordaunt  scarcely  noticed  any 
others  in  that  society  which  sent  its  repre 
sentatives  to  welcome  him ;  but  Sir  Gwyn 
Ruthven  could  not  escape  his  notice,  and,  out 
of  Mordaunt's  own  tender  and  vigilant  pa 
rental  feeling,  he  soon  detected  the  love  which 
Sir  Gwyn  had  for  Bessie.  This  discovery 
made  him  anxious  to  know  more  about  the 
young  baronet,  and  thus  he  sought  him  out ; 
and  the  result  was  to  create  in  his  mind  feel 
ings  of  strong  esteem  for  Sir  Gwyn,  and  of 
thankfulness  that  his  daughter  should  have 
won  the  regard  of  so  worthy  a  man.  This 
discovery  also  produced  a  change  in  his  own 
attitude.  He  began  to  fear  that  he  had  been 
too  selfish,  and  had  been  monopolizing  too 
much  of  his  daughter's  time  and  care.  He, 
therefore,  tried  to  remain  more  by  himself, 
BO  that  he  might  not  interfere  in  the  slightest 
degree  with  his  beloved  daughter's  happiness. 
Yet,  strange  to  say,  Bessie  would  not  allow 


this.  She  began  to  reproach  him  for  growing 
tired  of  her  already,  and  so  Bernal  Mordaunt 
had  to  give  up  his  little  plan  of  self-sacrifice, 
and  indulge  his  paternal  fondness  for  his 
daughter  without  any  further  fear  of  being  de 
trop.  But  Sir  Gwyn  had  no  reason  to  com 
plain,  for  he  was  always  made  cordially  wel 
come  by  Mordaunt ;  and  this  species  of  do 
mestic  footing  upon  which  he  found  himEelf 
could  not  be  otherwise  than  pleasing. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

BAFFLED     FANCIES. 

AFTER  that  interview  with  Father  Ma- 
grath,  Kane  Hellmuth  returned  to  Paris  with 
a  graver  sense  of  mystery,  and  a  profounder 
feeling  of  gloom.  The  remarks  of  the  priest 
had  stung  him  to  the  very  soul ;  and  yet  he 
did  not  see  how  they  could  have  been  inten 
tional.  He  did  not  think  it  possible  that  this 
priest — a  man  whom  he  had  never  seen  be 
fore,  and  one  who  certainly  could  never  have 
seen  him — could  have  penetrated  that  deep 
disguise  which  years  and  grief  had  thrown 
over  him — a  disguise  far  more  effectual  for 
concealment  than  any  mere  change  of  attire 
or  arrangement  of  hair  and  beard.  It  seemed 
evident  to  him  then  that  the  priest's  words, 
sharp  and  incisive  though  they  were,  must 
have  been  uttered  quite  spontaneously,  and 
arose  from  his  indignant  sympathy  with  the 
injured  Clara  Mordaunt,'  without  any  suspi 
cion  that  he  was  speaking  to  her  murderer. 

The  faint  hope,  therefore,  that  had  been 
raised  within  his  mind  by  Blake's  suggestions, 
had  been  dissipated  by  this  interview  with 
the  priest,  and  his  journey  had  proved  worse 
than  useless.  All  that  he  had  beard  had  only 
served  to  confirm  his  worst  fears,  and  to  tear 
open  afresh  the  old  wound  of  his  sorrow  and 
remorse.  But,  in  addition  to  this,  there  re- 
mained  the  mystery  of  the  apparition,  which 
was  now  even  more  inexplicable  than  ever. 
Had  he  been  able  to  think  for  one  moment 
that  his  brain,  or  his  optic  nerve,  or  even  his 
digestive  organs,  might  be  in  a  diseased  con 
dition,  or  in  a  condition  even  approximating 
to  it,  he  might  then  have  had  an  easy  expla 
nation.  But  nothing  of  this  was  the  case. 
His  bodily  frame  in  every  part  and  every 
function  had  never  been  more  sound  and 
vigorous.  The  apparition,  he  believed,  must 


BAFFLED   FANCIES, 


89 


have  an  objective  existence,  whatever  it  was. 
Its  mysterious  movements,  the  tremendous 
effect  which  it  produced  upon  him  in  mind 
and  body,  the  extraordinary  expression  of  its 
face,  and  the  never-to-be-forgotten  look  of  its 
eyes  as  they  rested  upon  him,  all  conspired 
to  increase  his  conviction  that  there  was 
something  of  the  supernatural  about  it.  He 
now  could  have  no  other  expectation  but  that 
it  would  repeat  its  visits.  With  this  expec 
tation,  he  tried  to  nerve  himself  to  a  resolu 
tion  to  force  himself  out  of  that  passive  state 
in  which  he  had  sunk  on  former  occasions, 
and  to  take  some  action — to  accost  it — or  at 
least  to  follow  it.  In  this  way,  if  it  were  pos 
sible,  he  might  be  better  able  to  fathom  the 
mystery.  But  to  nerve  one's  self  up  to  a  res 
olution  in  the  absence  of  the  terror  was  a  far 
different  thing  from  effecting  it  in  its  face 
and  presence ;  no  one  knew  this  fact  better 
than  Kane  Ilellmuth,  and  he  was  too  con 
scious  of  his  weakness  to  make  resolutions 
which  could  not  be  carried  out.  He  could 
only  resolve,  in  a  general  way,  to  struggle 
more  strenuously  against  his  weakness,  and 
hope  that  another  meeting  would  find  him 
less  unprepared. 

It  was  in  this  frame  of  mind  that  Kane 
Hellmuth  returned  to  his  lodgings.  Blake 
had  not  expected  him  back  so  soon,  and 
therefore  was  surprised  when  his  friend  called 
at  his  own  rooms.  He  had  not  entertained  a 
visitor  in  those  rooms  since  that  memorable 
evening  when  Dr.  O'Rourke  told  him  the  ap 
palling  story  of  the  monk  Aloysius.  When 
Kane  Hellmuth's  knock  came,  he  was  think 
ing  over  that  very  circumstance,  and  wonder 
ing  what  had  become  of  O'Rourke,  from 
whom  he  had  not  heard  a  word  since  his  de 
parture.  Various  circumstances  had  inten 
sified  his  interest  in  O'Rourke's  project,  which 
had  at  first  seemed  so  wild,  but  which  had 
been  presented  to  him  as  so  feasible.  At  the 
present  time,  he  jumped  up  hastily  and  sprung 
to  the  door,  expecting  O'Rourke,  and  it  was 
with  a  momentary  feeling  of  disappointment 
that  he  saw  Kane  Hellmuth.  But  this  visitor 
was  also  welcome,  for  he  had  been  to  London  ; 
he  had  perhaps  seen  Inez,  and  he  could  tell 
him  how  she  was  bearing  the  bereavement 
with  which  she  had  been  afflicted. 

So,  no  sooner  had  he  recognized  his  friend, 
than  he  poured  forth  a  current  of  questions. 
Had  he  actually  been  to  London  ?  Why  had 
he  come  back  so  soon  ?  Had  he  found  out 


I  any  thing?  Had  be  seen  Miss  Wyverne  ? 
Had  he  heard  any  thing  about  her?  Had  he 
asked  any  thing  about  her  ?  To  all  these 
questions  Hellmuth  listened  in  gloomy  si- 
lence.  At  length,  he  seated  himself,  and  then 
leisurely  told  the  general  outlines  of  his 
story.  To  this  Blake  listened  with  an  impa 
tience  which  he  tried  in  vain  to  repress ;  and 
at  length,  as  Ilellmuth  ended  without  having 
made  any  mention  of  the  only  subject  about 
which  he  cared  to  hear,  he  once  more  reit 
erated  his  questions.  To  these,  of  course, 
Hellmuth  could  give  no  satisfactory  answers. 
He  had  not  seen  her,  and  she  had  only  been 
spoken  of  in  a  casual  way  by  Father  Ma- 
grath.  He  had  mentioned  her  name  merely 
in  connection  with  her  recent  bereavement. 
He  told  what  the  priest  had  said  about  the 
condition  of  Mr.  Wyverne's  affairs,  and  Blake 
was  astonished  and  shocked  to  learn  that  the 
lady  whom  he  had  regarded  as  a  great  heiress 
was  really  no  better  than  a  penniless  depend 
ant.  Of  course,  no  idea  ever  entered  his 
mind  about  the  credibility  of  the  priest's 
statements.  The  testimony  of  one  who  oc 
cupied  so  important  and  so  confidential  a  po 
sition  in  the  family  as  this  man  evidently  did, 
was  of  itself  final,  and  left  no  room  for  doubt 
in  the  mind  of  either. 

Another  deep  impression  was  produced 
upon  Blake  by  Father  Magrath's  treatment 
of  Mr.  Wyverne's  dying  declaration.  He 
had  half  believed  in  their  actual  truth,  and 
had  led  Inez  to  feel  the  same,  though  that 
truth  seemed  to  him  most  bewildering  ar.d 
most  incredible.  Now,  however,  all  such 
ideas  would  have  to  be  dismissed.  Father 
Magrath  must  know  perfectly  well  the  truth 
about  the  past  life  of  his  friend,  and  his 
summary  rejection  of  Mr.  Wyverne's  declara 
tion  as  utter  nonsense,  together  with  his  very 
clear  and  natural  explanation  of  the  facts  of 
the  case,  left  no  room  for  further  discussion 
on  that  subject.  After  all,  from  almost  any 
point  of  view,  it  was  far  easier  to  consider 
his  words,  as  Father  Magrath  expressed  it, 
the  ravings  of  delirium,  than  as  the  sober 
utterance  of  reason.  If  any  perplexity  now 
remained  on  Blake's  mind  with  regard  to 
this  subject,  it  arose  wholly  out  of  his  moth 
er's  mysterious  language  with  reference  to 
that  man  with  whom  he  had  become  ac 
quainted  in  so  singular  a  manner,  and  Mr. 
Wyverne's  own  very  remarkable  regard  for 
nimself.  Still,  perplexing  as  these  things 


90 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


might  be,  lie  was  now  forced  to  conclude 
that  they  must  be  accounted  for  in  any  other 
way  rather  than  that  in  which  he  had  lately 
been  interpreting  them. 

Both  of  these  men,  then,  had  been  indul 
ging  in  fancies,  which  now  seemed  to  them 
not  only  untenable  but  nonsensical. 
These  may  be  enumerated  : 
First.  Kane  Hellmuth  had  indulged  in  a 
vague  hope  that  the  wife  who  had  died  ten 
years  ago  might  not  have  died  at  that  time,  as 
he  supposed. 

Secondly.  That  the  mysterious  apparition 
which  so  strongly  resembled  her  might  be  ac 
counted  for  on  the  ground  that  it  was  really 
herself. 

Thirdly.  Blake  had  fancied  that  Mr.  Wy- 
verne,  when  in  the  evident  delirium  of  mortal 
illness,  had  been  speaking  the  language  of 
calm  and  sober  reason. 

Fourthly.  He  had,  therefore,  been  led  to 
believe  in  these  delirious  words,  and  to  sup 
pose  that  Inez  Wyverne  was  not  the  daugh 
ter  of  Ilennigar  Wyverne. 

Fifthly.  For  the  same  reason  he  had 
brought  himself  almost  to  the  belief  that  he — 
Basil  Blake,  M.  D. — was  the  son  of  this  Ilen 
nigar  Wyverne. 

Now,  all  these  fancies,  and  all  other  fan 
cies  connected  with  these  more  or  less  directly, 
were  at  once  scattered  to  the  winds ;  and 
Basil  Blake  could  only  congratulate  himself 
that  his  unselfish  consideration  for  Inez  had 
prevented  him  from  entering  upon  so  absurd 
a  search  as  this  would  have  been.  It  was 
gratifying  in  other  ways,  too.  He  saw  now 
that  one  trouble,  which  had  so  distressed 
Inez,  would  be  dissipated ;  and  he  saw  also 
that  the  false  position,  in  which  his  own  ten 
derly  beloved  and  honored  mother  had  been 
placed  by  Ilennigar  Wyverne's  declaration, 
had  no  existence  whatever. 

All  this  time,  as  will  be  seen,  both  Kane 
rfellmuth  and  Blake  remained  in  ignorance 
of  one  important  fact.  Neither  of  them  had 
the  slightest  idea  that  Inez  had  left  her  home. 
If  Father  Magrath  had  known  this,  he  had  at 
least  chosen  to  say  nothing  whatever  about 
it.  According  to  his  statement,  Bernal  Mor- 
daunt  was  the  father  of  Bessie;  and,  there 
fore,  the  belief  which  had  caused  the  flight 
of  Inez  had  apparently  no  place  in  his  mind. 
The  story  which  he  had  told  Kane  Hellmuth 
accorded  in  all  points  with  the  account  which 
Bessie  had  given  of  herself  to  Inez,  though 


not  altogether  with  the  story  which  she  had 
told  Sir  Gwyn,  or  the  reminiscences  of  the 
past  which  she  had  narrated  to  Bernal  Mor- 
daunt  himself.  Inez,  however,  had  indulged  her 
own  beliefs,  and  had  acted  upon  her  own  im 
pulses  ;  and  now,  as  has  been  seen,  at  the 
very  time  when  Blake  and  Kane  Hellmuth 
were  holding  this  conversation,  she  was  far 
away  from  her  own  home.  While,  therefore, 
Blake  was  eagerly  questioning  Kane  Hell 
muth  about  her,  he  had  no  idea  that  she  had 
left  her  home,  and  that,  too,  with  Paris  for 
her  destination — that  she  might,  even  now, 
be  not  very  far  from  him.  But  such  a  thing 
could  not  possibly  be  suspected  under  any 
circumstances,  and  the  dismissal  of  his  fan 
cies  made  it  inconceivable  to  him  that  she 
should  be  anywhere  else  than  at  home. 

Among  all  the  facts  which  Blake  gathered 
from  Kane  Hellmuth's  account  of  his  visit, 
the  one  that  produced,  perhaps,  after  all,  the 
most  profound  effect  upon  him,  was  the  star 
tling  and  unexpected  announcement  of  her 
poverty. 

At  first  this  shocked  him,  but  afterward 
other  feelings  arose  within  him.  She  was  no 
longer  a  great  heiress  !  Her  father's  wealth, 
it  seemed,  was  all  fictitious.  The  great  heir- 
ess  was  an  utterly  destitute  and  penniless  de 
pendant.  She  would  have,  henceforth,  to 
trust  for  her  very  daily  bread  to  the  bounty 
or  the  pity  of  her  friends. 

A  tumult  of  emotion  arose  within  Blake's 
heart ;  and,  after  the  first  natural  feeling  of 
pity  or  regret,  there  came  a  sense  of  gratifica 
tion  and  triumph.  Such  feelings  were  quite 
natural.  For,  hitherto,  the  great  wealth  of 
Miss  Wyverne  had  seemed  almost  appalling 
to  one  in  his  situation,  with  his  feelings  tow 
ard  her,  and  hopes.  Her  wealth  elevated  her 
far  above  him,  so  far,  indeed,  that  he  almost 
despaired  of  ever  reaching  so  high.  He  could 
only  hope  to  attain  to  an  equality  with  her  by 
some  sudden  stroke  of  Fortune.  He  shrunk 
from  the  position  of  even  an  apparent  for 
tune-hunter;  and  his  high  sense  of  honor  and 
manly  pride  recoiled  from  the  apprehension 
of  the  world's  comments  upon  him,  even  if  it 
should  be  possible  for  him  to  win  so  great  an 
heiress.  It  was  this  great  difference  in  their 
positions  that  had  held  him  back  even  when 
Mr.  Wyverne  had  so  strongly  favored  his  ad 
vances,  and  had  over  and  over  again  prevent 
ed  him  from  saying  to  her  that  which  he 
longed  to  say,  and  which  she  herself  some- 


BAFFLED   FANCIES. 


91 


times  seemed  not  unwilling  to  hear.  Now, 
however,  the  difference  was  destroyed.  He 
found  himself  on  a  level  with  her,  not  by  his 
own  elevation,  but  through  her  depression. 
Had  he  been  merely  a  friend,  he  would  have 
felt  sorrow,  but,  being  an  ardent  lover,  he  re 
joiced.  It  gave  him  hope.  As  soon  as  the 
first  sharpness  of  her  recent  bereavement 
should  be  mitigated,  he  might  go  to  her  and 
tell  her  all.  It  only  remained  for  him  to 
make  himself  able  to  give  her  a  home  in  or 
der  to  ask  her  to  be  his. 

This  now  became  his  one  idea — to  win 
Inez. 

But,  in  order  to  win  her,  it  would  be  ne 
cessary  for  him  greatly  to  improve  his  pres 
ent  position.  Just  now,  he  was  doin^  no 
more  than  enabled  him  to  support  himself 
and  assist  his  mother.  Under  present  cir 
cumstances,  he  could  not  gain  her.  The  one 
tiling  that  he  wanted  was  a  rise  in  life.  He 
wanted  it  immediately.  He  was  burninf  with 
impatience,  if  not  to  win  Inez  at  once,  at 
least  to  see  his  way  toward  gaining  such  a 
prize. 

Kane  Hellmuth  left,  and  Basil  Blake  was 
alone.  Now,  there  came  back  the  thought 
which  he  had  entertained  when  Kane  Hell- 
muth's  knock  had  startled  him.  He  recalled 

the  memorable  interview  with  Dr.  O'Rourke 

the  story  of  Aloysius.  One  thought  arose, 
and  stood  forth  prominently  in  his  mind,  ris 
ing  up  to  grander  proportions,  till  all  his  ex 
cited  soul  was  filled  with  one  vision — a  vision 
of  splendor  unutterable — of  wealth  illimitable 
—  the  vision  which  O'Rourke's  vehement 
words  had  once  before  imparted  to  his  imagi 
nation,  and  which  now  once  more  arose  and 
would  not  be  driven  away — the  treasure  of 
the  Coesars. 

At  another  time,  and  under  other  circum 
stances,  Blake  might  have  reasoned  away  his 
gathering  faith  in  O'Rourke's  theory;  but 
now  his  love  for  Inez,  his  impatience  to  win 
her,  his  own  poverty,  her  dependence,  his  in 
tense  desire  for  some  immediate  action,  all 
forced  his  thoughts  to  dwell  upon  this,  and 
caused  him  to  give  to  it  that  faith  which  his 
will  rather  than  his  reason  dictated.  Some 
treasure  might  be  there,  at  any  rate.  Wheth 
er  it  had  been  buried  there  in  ancient  or  in 
mediaeval  times  mattered  not.  As  long  as 
any  treasure  might  be  there,  whether  of  the 
Crasars  or  the  popes,  the  Hohenstaufens  or 
the  Roman  barons,  it  was  worth  a  search. 


Failure  could  do  no  harm ;  it  could  involve 
no  loss  ;  while  success  would   give  him  all 
that  his  wildest  fancies  could   portray.     In 
spite  of  himself,  therefore,  his  thoughts  con 
stantly  reverted  more  and  more  every  day  to 
this  dazzling,  this  transcendent,  this  unparal 
leled  project;  and,  while  he  struggled  to  re 
press  too  great  eagerne'ss  of  hope,  the  remem 
brance  came  to  his  mind  of  all  those  vehe 
ment  arguments  with   which  O'Rourke  had 
once  before  reasoned  down  his  incredulity, 
and  enforced  at  least  a  temporary  acquies 
cence  in  the   credibility  of  his  theory.     II0 
recalled  also  the  minuteness  of  details  which 
had  characterized  the  story  of  Aloysius,  and 
the    stress   which    O'Rourke   had   laid  upon 
this;  he  recalled  what  he  knew  of  the  char 
acter  of  O'Rourke  himself,  a  man  who,  as  far 
as  he  could  judge,  seemed  too  hard  and  prac 
tical,  too  much  possessed  of  common-sense, 
to  become  a  prey  to  visionary  projects  ;  and, 
to  Blake's  mind,  O'Rourke's  own   character 
appeared  one  of  the  strongest  arguments  in 
favor  of  the  bulk  of  his  theory. 

During  Blake's  stay  at  St.  Malo,  the  events 
of   his   life   had    been   so    interesting  «that 
O'Rourke's  plan  had  become,  if  not  forgot 
ten,  at  least  obscured  by  other  things.     In 
the  presence  of  Inez,  even   the  treasure  of 
the  Caesars   became   a   matter   of  small   im 
portance.     The  days  passed,  and,  as   every 
diiy  Inez  Wyverne  occupied  a  larger  space  in 
his  thoughts,  so   O'Rourke  and   his  projects 
became  less  and  less  prominent.     At  length 
the  tragedy  of  Villeneuve  occurred,  and  Inez 
suddenly  became   alienated.      Between    him 
and  her  a  gulf  seemed  to  have  opened,  arising 
from  that  mysterious  declaration  of  the  de 
lirious  father,  which  seemed  to  place  them 
both  in  so  false  a  position  toward  one  anoth 
er.       This    last    occurrence    had    furnished 
Blake's   mind   with    new   thoughts,  and  the 
alienation  of  Inez  had  given  him  new  anxie 
ties.     Thus  they  had  separated  ;  and,  while 
the  coldness  of  Inez  had  prevented  her  from 
exhibiting  the  warmth  of  common  friendship, 
his  own  delicacy  and  his  respect  for  her  grief 
had  prevented  him  from  showing  in  any  way 
the  deeper  feelings  of  his  own  heart. 

But  now,  under  these  new  circumstances, 
every  feeling  that  could  influence  him  combined 
to  direct  his  thoughts  once  more  to  the  forgot 
ten  plan  of  O'Rourke.  Day  succeeded  to  day, 
and  the  more  he  thought  of  it  the  more  did 
his  thoughts  cling  to  it.  Week  succeeded  to 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


week,  and  these  thoughts  came  to  be  upper 
most  in  his  mind.  It  came  at  last  to  this : 
that  it  was  simply  impossible  for  him  to  take 
any  interest  in  any  other  thing  so  long  as  thia 
should  be  undecided.  So  brilliant  a  plan  for 
securing  at  one  stroke  the  fortunes  of  his  life 
was  not  to  be  easily  set  aside  or  lightly  dis- 
regarded ;  more  than  this,  it  forced  itself 
more  and  more  upon  his  attention,  and  finally 
engrossed  all  his  thoughts. 

So  aggressive  were  these  thoughts,  and  so 
absorbing,  that  all  other  things  at  length  lost 
their  interest ;  and,  so  long  as  this  was  held 
in  suspense,  he  was  unfit  for  any  thing  else. 
Kane  Hellmuth  could  not  help  seeing  that 
Blake  was  preoccupied,  and  profoundly  inter 
ested  in  some  purpose ;  but  what  it  was  he 
forbore  to  inquire.  Blake  never  alluded  to 
the  subject,  even  in  the  remotest  way.  He 
remembered  O'Rourke's  warning,  and  was  re 
solved  that  no  carelessness  or  rash  confidence 
of  his  should  endanger  the  success  of  this 
great  enterprise. 

Meanwhile,  the  days  passed  on,  and  the 
weeks  also,  and  O'Rourke  gave  no  sign.  As 
the  time  passed,  Blake  waited,  expecting  every 
day  to  hear  from  him  or  see  him.  Between 
his  interview  with  O'Rourke  and  his  return  to 
Paris,  eight  weeks  had  elapsed  ;  several  weeks 
more  had  passed  away  since,  and  still  there 
was  no  sign.  The  three  months  would  soon 
be  up. 

What  then  ? 

The  longer  his  suspense  lasted  the  greater 
his  impatience  grew,  and  at  length  that  im 
patience  became  intolerable.     It  caused  in 
numerable  speculations  as  to  the  result  of 
O'Rourke's  attempts  thus  far.     Sometimes  he 
feared  that  O'Rourke  had  changed  his  mind 
about  taking  an  assistant,  and  had  resolved 
to  do  all  the  work  himself.    At  other  times 
he  feared  that  some  disaster  might  have  oc- 
curred,  and  that  the  bold  explorer  into  those 
subterranean  realms  had  paid  for  his  temerity 
with  his  life.     Again  his  fears  took  a  new 
shape,  and  led  him  to  suppose  that  the  ex 
periment  had  been  tried,   the   search    had 
been    made,   and  had    resulted    in    such 
total  failure  that  O'Rourke  had  retired  in 
shame  and  disappointment  too  deep  to  al 
low  him  even  to  give  notice  of  his  failure  to 
his    proposed    confederate.      This    fact    of 
Blake's  anxiety,  and  of  his  numerous  specu 
lations  about  the  causes  of  O'Rourke's  silence, 
shows  better  than  any  thing  else  how  com 


pletely  this   treasure  -  hunting  scheme    had 


taken  possession  of  his  soul. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE   RETURN   OF   ANOTHER   MESSENGER. 

AT  length  one  day  a  telegraphic  dispatch 
was  brought  to  Blake.  He  opened  it,  with  a 
vague  thought  that  it  might  be  some  ill  news 
from  his  mother,  from  whom  he  had  heard 
nothing  for  some  time.  It  was  not  from 
England.  It  was  from  Rome.  It  was  from 
O'Rourke.  Blake's  heart  beat  high  with 
hope  as  he  read  it,  though  in  those  few 
words  there  was  but  little  of  a  definite  char 
acter.  The  dispatch  was  as  follows : 

;'  Have  made  good  beginning.  Be  Paris  two 
days.  Be  ready? 

The  three  months  were  almost  up  when 
this  came.  Blake's  fever  of  excitement  had 
reached  its  height.  His  suspense  was  be 
coming  intolerable.  In  the  midst  of  such 
feelings  this  message  came,  and  served  to 
stimulate  his  hope  to  the  utmost.  In  that 
meagre  dispatch  there  was  no  mention  made 
of  the  particulars  of  the  Roman  expedition, 
but  O'Rourke  spoke  of  a  "  good  beginning," 
and  told  him  to  be  ready.  He  could  not  wish 
for  any  thing  better.  It  was  all  that  O'Rourka 
had  proposed  to  do  by  himself.  Anything 
more  he  had  already  decided  to  defer,  even 
to  attempt,  until  he  should  have  a  companion 
and  an  assistant.  Best  of  all,  O'Rourke  would 
be  here  in  two  days,  and  he  would  know  all. 

The  two  days  passed  slowly.  Blake  saw 
Kane  Hellmuth  once.  The  two  friends  had 
but  little  to  say.  Hellmuth  was  preoccupied. 
Something  unusual  had  occurred,  but  Blake 
had  too  much  on  his  own  mind  to  notice  it. 
Had  not  Blake  himself  been  so  taken  up  with 
that  dazzling  plan  which  now  filled  all  his 
thoughts,  and  lured  him  on  constantly  with  a 
resistless  fascination,  he  could  not  have  failed 
to  notice  the  troubled  aspect  of  his  friend's 
face.  Some  new  thing  had  evidently  hap 
pened,  but  what  it  was  Blake  did  not  ask,  nor 
did  Kane  Hellmuth  tell. 

That  same  evening  Blake  was  alone  in  his 
room.  He  expected  O'Rourke  on  the  arrival 
of  the  Marseilles  train ;  and,  if  he  did  come 
by  that,  he  could  not  hope  to  see  him  much 
before  midnight.  Time  passed.  At  last  mid- 
night  came.  About  half  an  hour  afterward 


THE   RETURN   OF  ANOTHER   MESSENGER. 


93 


Blake  heard  steps  ascending  the  stairway. 
In  uncontrollable  excitement  he  sprang  to 
the  door  and  looked  out.  He  met  O'Rourke 
face  to  face. 

"  Well,  me  boy,"  said  the  latter,  wringing 
Blake's  hand  heartily,  "  here  I  am  again.  I 
haven't  disappointed  ye,  have  I  ?  Oh,  by  the 
powers  !  but  isn't  it  the  hard  time  I've  had  ! 
Sure  it's  nieself  that's  been  going  to  give  up 
intirely,  over  and  over  agin.  Still  for  all, 
mind  ye,  it  wasn't  the  trisure,  or  the  cata 
combs,  at  all,  at  all.  The  difficulties  arose 
merely  in  the  attimpt  to  get  a  futhold,  and 
juring  the  failure  that  was  consequent  from 
the  obchooseniss  of  the  people.  But  I'll 
tell  ye  all.  Have  ye  iver  a  drop  of  whiskey, 
thin  ?  " 

Blake  hurried  to  his  closet  and  brought 
forth  a  bottle,  which  he  placed  by  the  side  of 
a  decanter  of  wine,  that  already  stood  upon 
the  table,  and  then  produced  a  glass. 

"  I  have  cognac,"  said  he,  "  but  I'm  sorry 
to  say  I  have  no  whiskey." 
O'Rourke  gave  a  sigh. 
"  Well,  well,"  said  he,  "  it's  no  bad  sub- 
stichoot,"  and,  with  these  words,  he  poured 
out  some  cognac.  Then  he  flung  himself  into 
an  easy-chair,  and,  holding  the  glass  in  his 
hand,  sat  leaning  back  for  a  few  minutes  sip 
ping  the  cognac.  At  length  he  put  down  the 
glass,  and  then  drew  a  long  breath  of  satis 
faction. 

"  Well,  Blake,  me  boy,"  said  he,  "  I'll  tell 
ye  all  about  it  from  beginning  to  ind ;  all  the 
whirrul  and  chumult  of  ivints  that  have  hap 
pened  juring  my  absince,  and  ye'll  discerrun 
for  yerself  the  difficulties  I've  had  to  contind 
with. 

"  In  the  first  place,  ye'll  be  surprised  to 
hear  that  all  this  time  thus  far  has  been  con- 
shumed,  not  in  any  subterranean  labor,  but 
simply  in  the  attimpt  to  get  a  house.  Ye  see, 
it  isn't  ivery  house  that'd  do.  There  were 
only  a  certain  number  in  the  immajiate  vicin 
ity  of  the  monastery  of  San  Antonio.  It 
would  have  been  quite  useless  to  git  a  house 
any  distance  away.  Now,  ye  know,  the  mon 
astery  is  on  the  Via  dei  Conti,  and  the  pas 
sage  of  Aloysius  takes  its  beginning  from  the 
west  wall — in  the  very  middle  of  that  wall, 
according  to  the  description  of  me  own  cous 
in  Malachi,  monk  that  was,  and  is  now  in 
glory.  This  passage,  as  I  have  all  along  in- 
farrumed  you,  runs  in  a  direction  which  must 
lead  to  the  Roman  Forum — now  the  Campo 


Yacchino — and  the  Palatine  Hill.  Of  coorse 
any  house  I'd  be  after  tinting  must  be  situ 
ated  in  sufficient  proximity  to  the  monastery 
to  allow  of  the  possebelty  of  engineering  a 
way  to  the  passage  of  Aloysius  ;  or,  if  I  could 
get  a  house  on  the  ground,  in  the  rear  of  the 
monastery,  it  would  do  as  well,  for  thin  the 
passage  could  be  tackled  more  directly.  Well, 
this,  of  coorse,  was  the  thing  I  tried  to  do, 
but  it  was  the  very  thing  I  couldn't  do.  I 
could  git  upper  rooms  plinty  enough,  but  the 
lower  flure  was  the  thing  I  couldn't  git.  Thin, 
there  was  sich  indifferince,  sich  a  lack  of  in- 
terprise,  sich  churrulishniss  and  shupineness, 
that  over  and  over  I  filt  inclined  to  throw  up 
the  kyards  and  returrun  home  in  dispair. 

"  Howandiver,  sich  a  prize  as  the  one  I  had 
before  me  was  not  one  that  was  to  be  given 
up,  merely  because  there  happined  to  be  a  few 
obstacles  at  the  outsit,  ispicially  when  these 
obstacles  arose  from  nothing  more  than  the 
obchuseness   and   shupineness   of  min,   and 
other  things  which  could  easily  be  continded 
with.     So  I  kipt  on  ;  and,  though  week  after 
week  passed  away  without  any  thing  being 
done,  yet  I  persevered,  and  finally  mit  with 
an   opporchunity,  which  I  at  once  seized  a 
holt   of.      This    opporchunity   was    a    large 
house,  which  was   one  of  the  foulest,  and 
vilest,  and  most  dilapidated  in  the  city.     For 
this  cause  I  had  niver  so  much  as  given  it  a 
thought ;  for,  ye  see,  my  idea  was  to  hire  the 
lower  story  of  some  house,  which  might  pass 
for  a  shuitable  risidence  for  a  man  in  moder 
ate  circumstances,  who  was  indivoring  to  live 
economically.     Now,  the  momint  that  I  saw 
this  old  rack  of  a  house,  the  thought  came  to 
me  that  this  would  be  the  place.     I  need  not 
take  it  as  a  lodger,  but  I  might  rint  the  intire 
structure.      It  was  a  large,  quadrangular  idi- 
fice,  and  was  crammed  and  crowded  with  the 
lowest  class  of  the  population.     I  wint  to  the 
ouner,  and  riprisinted  that  I  wanted  to  insti- 
choot  a  manufactory  there  of  a  new  kind  of 
maccaroni,  and   offerred   to   rint   the   whole 
building.     There  was  no  difficulty  about  that. 
I  offerred  him  a  good  price,  and  he  accepted 
it ;  but  the  real  difficulty  was  with  the  tinints, 
who  were  unwilling  to  go.     Howandiver,  they 
were  all  poor,  and  tinints  by  the  week,  and  a 
few  baiocchi  apiece  sufficed  to  make  thim,  one 
and  all,  leave  very  contintedly.     So  at  last 
the  big  house  came  impty  into  my  hands,  but 
the  delay  in  gitting  the  tinints  all  moved  out 
was  so  great,  that  it  was  not  till  a  week  ago 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


that  I  was  able  to  inter  in  and  take  forramel 


'Well,    sir,   there    niver   was    a    luckier 
chance  in  the  wide  wurruld  than  the  one  that 
put  me  in  possission  of  that  particular  house. 
It  was  four  stories  high.     It  was  at  least  five 
cinturies  old,  and  maybe  tin.     The  walls  were 
solid  and  massive;   the  windows  small  and 
iron-grated;   on   the  lower   stories   the  win- 
dows  worn't  open  to  the  street  at  all,  but 
looked  out    on    the  court-yard.      Only  the 
upper  stories  had  windows  on  the  street,  and 
these  were  barred  and  grated,  as  I  said.    It 
was  quadrangular  in  shape ;  and  the  dure  was 
of  massive  oak,  studded  with  iron  spikes.     I 
had  a  bit  of  a  hinge  put  on  one  the  first  day, 
and  that's  about  the  ixtint  of  the  repairs 
which  I've  put  on  it  thus  far.     Ye  see,  whin 
I  open  my  maccaroni  manufacture,  the  re 
pairs  can  be  inlarged.     'Deed,  thin,  but  re 
pairs  are  needed ;  the  roof  is  open  in  half  a 
dozen  places,  and  the  plaster  everywhere  is 
tumbling  from  the  walls.     But  the  massive- 
ness  of  the  house  is  wonderful.     It  was  un- 
doubtedly  built  in  the  old  days  of  faction 
and  street-fighting;  perhaps  in  the  days  of 
Boniface  VIII.,  or  maybe   in   those   of  old 
Hildebrand,  or   maybe   as   far  back   as   the 
times  of  Theodora  and  Marozia.     Ye  may  de- 
pind  upon  it,  I  was  the  happy  man  that  day 
as  I  saw  this. 

"  Thin,  apart  from  this,  the  situation  was 
the  very  one  that  was  best  shuited  to  m] 
purposes.  In  the  seclusion  of  this  obscure 
street,  one's  operations  need  not  be  inquired 
into,  nor  need  they  be  so  carefully  gyarded  as 
they  would  have  to  be  ilsewhere.  Thin,  it  lies 
in  the  rear  of  the  Monastery  of  San  Antonio. 
Take  a  point  in  the  middle  of  the  west  wall 
of  the  monastery  as  one  point,  and  thin  take 
the  Arch  of  Titus  as  another,  and  between 
these  two  points  draw  a  straight  line.  Well, 
the  north  wall  of  this  old  house  won't  be 
more'n  a  few  feet  distant  from  that  line. 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  now  ?  Wasn't  that 
luck  ?  Wasn'  t  that  worth  waiting  for  ? 

"Well,  of  course,  my  only  idea  was  to 
examine  without  delay  the  lower  portions  of 
the  house.  So,  first  of  all,  I  had  the  bit  of  a 
hinge  put  on,  and  thin  had  the  bolts  fixed  so 
that  I  could  shut  the  dures  and  bar  thim. 
Whin  I  did  that,  I  could  defy  the  wurruld. 
Before  I  did  so,  I  had  a  bit  of  a  pick  brought 
in,  and  that  was  all,  barrin'  lights,  and  a  bit 
of  food  and  drink.  Ye  may  depind  upon  it, 


when  I  shut  mesilf  inside,  thin  I  felt  safe.  It 
was  a  fortress.  No  one  could  spy  me,  no  one 
could  assail  me.  The  walls,  of  schupindous 
thickness,  enclosed  me ;  and,  if  the  old  roof 
was  a  bit  dilapidated,  sorra  a  bit  of  difference 
did  that  make. 

"  Well,  now,  you  must  know  this,  and  it's 
a  great  thing  in  our  favor.     The  Monastery 
of  San  Antonio  is  on  ground  that  is  a  little 
higher   than   that   on  which   the   old  house 
stands;   about  six  or  eight  feet,  no  more. 
That  was  another  thing  I  deticted  at  a  glance, 
and,  of  course,  congratulated  mesilf  about  it. 
For  why?     Why,  ye  see,  the  cellars  of  the 
house  would  then  be  thereabouts  on  some 
where  the  same  gineral  livil  with  the  livil  of 
the  lowermost  vaults   of  San  Antonio.     Of 
course,  my  first  visit  was  made  to  the  cellars. 
They  were  very  spacious,  and  ran  all  under 
neath  the  house.     I  merely  wished  to  see 
their  ixtint,  and  also  to  test  the  rock,  to  try 
how  hard  it  was,  whether  it  would  yield  easily 
to  the  pick,  or  whether  I  would  have  to  make 
use  of  gunpowder.     If  it  was  the  same  rock 
as  that  in  which  the  Catacombs  are  ixcavated, 
of  course  I  knew  I   should  have  no   difli- 
culty;  but,  unfortunately,  I  couldn't  be  sure 
of  that;  for  there's  another  stratum  of  rock 
that  lies  under  Rome,  of  a  very  different  char 
acter.     This  is  travertine,  a  stone  of  wonder 
ful  nature,  as  porous  as  a  sponge,  looking  like 
the  petrifactions  of  innumerable  little  twigs, 
yet  as  hard  as  flint ;  and,  with  stone  like  that, 
I  knew  I  couldn't  do  any  thing.    I  also  wished 
to  pound  upon  the  walls  of  the  cellar  to  find 
out  if  there  might  be  ixcavations  or  hollows 
beyond,  on  the  south  side ;  for,  if  there  was 
any  such,  it  would  show  me  that  the  Cata 
combs  were  near. 

;<  Well,  ye  may  be  sure  I  wint  to  the  south 
wall  first  and  forrumost.  I  wasn't  going  to 
waste  any  time  on  other  places.  Well,  the 
south  wall  was  all  built  up  of  stones  of  dif 
ferent  sizes.  This  surprised  me  a  little  at 
first,  for  I  had  a  vague  idea  that  I'd  find  solid 
rock,  but  such  an  idea  was  shuperlatively 
absu'rrud,  for  what  could  they  do  without  a 
regular,  firrumly-built  foundation?  Well,  I 
pounded  along  this  wall  all  the  whole  length 
without  obtaining  any  satisfactory  results, 
for  there  was  the  same  sound  all  along,  and, 
if  there  was  any  hollow  behind,  it  didn't  show 
itself  that  way.  My  chief  hope  was  that  I 
mio-ht  break  away  the  wall  and  git  to  the  soft 
Catacomb  rock;  my  dread  was  that  I  should 


THE   RETURN   OF   ANOTHER   MESSENGER. 


95 


find  the  hard' travertine,  or  the  soft  sane 
Under  Rome  there  are  these  three  strata 
the  hard  travertine,  such  as  is  used  for  build 
ing  purposes ;  the  soft  sand,  out  of  which  th 
Roman  cemint  is  made  ;  and  the  soft  sand 
stone,  where  the  excavations  were  made  fo 
the  Catacombs.  It  is  only  where  this  las 
occurs  that  the  Catacombs  exist,  and  so  al 
my  hopes  depindid  upon  the  kind  of  groun 
that  I  might  incounter  behind  the  wall. 

"  I  wint  to  work  vigorously.  The  stones 
began  to  give  way  after  a  few  blows  of  the 
pick.  I  got  out  the  small  ones  first,  and  thin 
wint  to  work  at  a  good-sized  bit  of  a  rock 
and,  afther  about  two  hours'  hard  work,  ] 
fetched  it  out  on  the  flure. 

"  Well,  there  was  plasther  behind  that 
again,  and  other  stones,  so  I  had  to  enlarge 
the  breach  to  an  ixtint  comminsurate  with 
what  now  appeared  the  evidint  thickness  of 
the  wall.  It  was  the  foundation-wall,  ye'll 
understand,  of  an  idifice,  built  in  the  middle 
ages,  whin  ivery  house  had  to  be  a  man's  cas 
tle,  and  this  was  as  strong  as  a  castle.  I 
worked  all  night  long,  and  still  the  more  rocks 
I  pulled  out  the  more  there  were  behind.  By 
morrunin'  I  had  a  hole  six  feet  wide  and  six 
feet  deep,  and  still  there  were  no  signs  of  any 
ind.  Well,  I  had  to  leave  off  and  seek  some 
repose.  I  slipt,  risted,  and  refrished  mesilf 
all  that  day,  and  on  the  following  night  re- 
turruned  to  my  work.  I  had  worked  out  anoth 
er  big  stone  that  lay  at  the  ind  of  my  ixcava- 
tion.  It  rolled  down  the  slanting  line  of  the 
rubbish  that  lay  in  the  hole,  and  it  was  a 
•wonder  it  didn't  take  me  with  it.  As  it  left 
its  place,  I  discerruned  something  dark.  I 
rushed  forward,  and  held  my  light  far  in.  It 
was  an  opening.  I  thrust  my  arrum  forward. 
I  could  feel  that  I  had  reached  the  outside  of 
the  foundation-wall,  and  that  beyond  this  there 
was  imptiniss. 

"  Tare  and  ages,  Blake !  but  I  was  the 
.wonderful  man  at  that  momint.  I  fell  to 
trimbling  all  over.  Me  hand  shuk  to  that 
ixtint  that  I  had  to  leave  down  the  light  on 
the  flure,  and  stand  still,  panting  and  suffo 
cating,  with  me  eyes  fixed  on  that  same.  Me 
head  seemed  as  impty  as  that  imptiness  be 
yond,  and  inside  of  me  skull  me  brain  wint 
round  in  a  wild  whurrul,  and  I  was  for  a  few 
momints  rejuced  to  a  state  of  prostration  so 
ixtreme  that  I  couldn't  rezhume  me  work  for 
iver  so  long.  Howandiver,  I  picked  up  me 
scattered  sinses  at  last,  and  me  lamp  too,  and 


thin,  retumming  to  the  hole  I'd  made,  I  tried 
to  enlarge  it.     It  was  rather  dangerous  work 
just  thin— and,  indeed,  it  had  been  so  for 
some  time  past — but  I  was  too  ixcited  to 
think  much  about  it,  and  so  I  succeeded,  af 
ter  a  half-hour's  desperate  work,  in  making  a 
hole  large  enough  for  me  to  put  me  head  and 
shoulders  through.     By  that  time  I  had  got 
over  me  ixciteinint  altogether,  and  I  wasn't 
going  to  let  mesilf  be  thrown  off  me  gyard 
agin.     So  I  tuk  me  bit  of  a  light  and  stuck  it 
through,  and  thin  pushed  me  head  and  shoul 
ders  in  after  it.     Well,  my  first  feeling  was 
one  of  deep  disappointrnint,  but  this  was  in 
stantly  succeeded  by  one   of  wonder.     The 
imptiness  that  lay  there  was  only  of  a  small 
ixtint.      It  was   a  hollow  cavity,  that    was 
all ;  horizontal ;  about  six  feet  long,  and  three 
feet  wide,  and  two  feet  high.     Beyond  this, 
on  the  other  side,  was  the  rock,  which  here 
was  white  and  smooth.     I  say  I  first  felt  dis- 
appointmint,  but,  after  about  seventeen  sec 
onds,  as   I   said,   I  was  filled  with  wonder. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  it  was  a  grave, 
and,  as  I  believed  firrumly,  a  Catacomb  grave. 
But  how  had  it  come  here  ?     I  accounted  for 
it  at  once  in  the  easiest  way  possible.     The 
builders  of  this  house,  in  digging  for  a  cellar, 
had  come  to  this  grave,  and  perhaps  even  to 
one   of  the   passage-ways   with   many  other 
graves.     They,  no  doubt,  considered  them  as 
the  graves  of  the  old  pagans,  and  scattered 
their  ashes  to  the  winds ;  or,  if  any  one  of 
them  could  read — or,  if  they  sint  for  a  priest 
to  decipher  the  tablets,  they,  no  doubt,  saw 
that  they  were  Christian  dead,  and  had  thim 
all  riverintially  removed  to  another  place,  af 
ter  which  they  continued  their  work  of  build- 
ng.     That  was  the  way  I  accounted  for  it  in 
my  own  mind  during  the  few  minutes  that  I 
ay  there  with  me  head  and  shoulders  poked 
:hrough,  looking  at  this  impty  sipulchre. 

"  Well,  as  I  lay  there,  staring  all  around, 
me  attintion  was  suddenly  arrested  by  the 
great  difference  that  there  was  between  tho 
tone  that  faced  me,  forming  the  back  of  the 
epulchre,  and  the  rock  in  which  the  tomb 
was  cut ;  for  the  rock  was  brown  sandstone, 
juite  rough,  too,  with  the  marks  of  the  chisel 
lainly  discernible;    while  the  stone  at  the 
ear  was  white  and  smooth,  with  no  chisel- 
marks  in  particular.     A  closer  look  showed 
ne  that  it  was  marble,  and  that  it  was  joined 
n  from  another  side  which  lay  outside  of 
his  where  I  was.     In  a  momint  I  compre- 


96 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION 


hindid  the  facts  of  the  case.  The  ixcavations 
had  been  cut  in  the  rear  of  the  grave ;  that 
slab  showed  the  front  of  it.  If  so,  thers 
must  be  a  passage-way  on  the  other  side. 
The  moiuint  that  this  thought  came  to  me,  I 
scrambled  back,  seized  the  pick,  returruned 
once  more  to  the  hole,  and  thin  dealt  a  dozen 
punches  with  all  me  force  at  the  marble.  I 
was  right.  The  marble  yielded ;  a  few  more 
blows  forced  it  farther  away ;  and,  finally, 
with  a  dull  thud  and  a  low  crash,  fell  in.  In 
another  minit  I  was  in  after  it,  with  me 
lamp  in  me  hand,  looking  around  me  with 
•wild  eyes.  And  oh,  but  wasn't  that  the  mo- 
mint  of  all  mornints !  Holy  saints  and  an 
gels  !  but  wasn't  I  the  frantic  and  delirious 
man!  It  was  a  passage-way;  with  all  the 
marks,  and  signs,  and  appurtenances,  which 
characterize  the  passages  of  the  Catacombs ; 
with  the  slabs,  and  the  inscriptions,  and  the 
tiers  of  tombs,  and  the  black  darkness  in  the 
distance,  into  which  the  faint  lamp-light  only 
struggled  a  few  feet  or  so,  and  thin  died  out. 
And,  oh,  but  I  was  fairly  overwhellumed  once 
more,  so  that  I  just  sat  down  there  and  bint 
me  head  down,  and  cried  like  a  child  ! " 

O'Rourke  hastily  poured  out  another  glass 
of  cognac,  which  he  gulped  down,  and  then 
went  on : 

"  Well,  there  I  was,  in  the  Catacombs,  in 
the  very  part  of  the  Catacombs  I  wished  to 
be,  that  is,  the  Palatine  Catacombs,  and  in 
the  rear,  that  is  toward  the  west  of  the  Mon 
astery  of  San  Antonio.  Still,  the  question  re 
mained — what  the  passage  was.  No  doubt, 
as  I  had  all  along  considered,  there  were  nu 
merous  passage-ways  here,  just  like  the  one 
which  I  wished  to  find.  I  could  not  be  satis 
fied  till  I  had  learned  something  more  about 
this.  So  I  tuk  me  lamp,  and  I  started  to 
walk  along  on  me  left,  for  I  knew  that  the 
Monastery  of  San  Antonio  lay  in  that  quarter. 
Well,  as  I  wint  along,  I  saw  nothing  but  the 
slabs  that  covered  the  tombs  and  bore  the 
usual  inscriptions.  They  were  familiar 
enough  to  me,  for  I'd  seen  the  likes  of  thim 
over  and  over  in  the  Lapidarian  Gallery,  or 
the  Vatican  Museum.  So  I  strolled  along 
without  paying  any  special  attintion  to  any 
of  thim.  I  was  surprised  to  find  that  there 
were  no  transverse  passages,  and  thought  this 
was  a  good  sign.  At  length,  I  began  to  won 
der  at  the  distance  I  had  gone,  and  to  fear 
that,  after  all,  this  was  the  wrong  passage-way, 
whin  suddenly  I  found  mesilf  brought  up  full 


in  front  of  a  wall.  The  ind  was  walled  up. 
I  could  go  no  farther.  There  was  no  doubt 
about  it.  This  was  the  Monastery  of  San 
Antonio;  this  was,  indubitably,  the  intrance 
into  the  vault — walled  up — and  this  was  most 
certainly  the  Passage  of  Aloysius. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

BLAKE   TAKES   LEAVE   OF   HIS   FRIENDS. 

DURING  this  account  of  himself,  O'Rourke 
had  watched  Blake  very  intently,  to  see  the 
effect  produced  upon  him.  If  he  had  wished 
to  create  an  excitement  in  Blake's  mind,  he 
certainly  had  every  reason  to  feel  gratified. 
Already,  even  before  he  had  come,  Blake's 
tumult  of  hopes  and  fears  had  been  excessive ; 
and  now,  during  this  singular  narrative,  his 
emotion  reached  its  climax ;  so  great  was  it, 
in  fact,  that  it  seemed  to  deprive  him  of  the 
power  of  speech ;  and  he  had  sat  there  spell 
bound  and  mute.  Not  one  word  did  he  say 
all  this  time ;  but,  by  his  rigid  attitude,  his 
clasped  hands,  his  heightened  color,  his  glis 
tening  eyes,  he  plainly  showed  how  intense 
was  the  excitement  within  him.  Yet  the 
story  of  O'Rourke  had  been  so  narrated  that 
he  had  all  along  been  kept  in  suspense,  and 
therefore  his  attention  had  been  quickened, 
and  his  excitement  increased,  all  through,  un 
til  finally  it  reached  its  climax  at  the  end, 
when  O'Rourke  came  to  the  convincing  proof, 
and  the  plain  declaration,  that  he  had  dis 
covered  and  traversed  the  passage  of  Aloy 
sius. 

"  By  Heaven  ! "  he  burst  forth  ;  "  I  swear, 
O'Rourke,  all  this  seems  almost  incredible." 

O'Rourke  smiled. 

"I've  got  something,"  said  he,  "that'll 
settle  the  doubts  of  any  man.  Look  here." 

And  he  slowly  produced  from  his  pocket 
a  rosary.  It  was  old,  and  stained,  and  dis 
colored.  It  seemed  as  though  it  had  been  ex 
posed  to  damp  for  a  long  time. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  asked  Blake. 

"  Well,  that's  more  than  I  can  say,  for 
certain ;  but  I'll  tell  you  how  I  got  it.  I've 
told  ye  how  I  got  to  the  ind  of  the  passage— 
by  the  Monastery  of  San  Antonio.  Well,  I 
stayed  there  a  few  moments,  and  thin  re 
turruned  to  the  place  of  interrance.  Arriving 
there,  I  did  not  feel  inclined  to  leave  just  yit, 
so  I  tuk  to  wanderin'  along,  thinking  that  I 


BLAKE   TAKES   LEAVE   OF   IIIS  FRIENDS. 


might  go  at  least  as  far  as  some  transvers 

passage,   especially  as   this  had   been  min 

tioned  in  the  manuscript.     So  I  walked  on 

and,  at  length,  after  I  had  gone  about  as  fa 

from  the  interrance  as  it  was  from  that  spo 

to  the  monastery,  I  found  another  passag 

crossing,  and,  looking  forward,  I  could  se 

where  the  passage  of  Aloysius  still  ran  on 

losing  itself  in  the  darkness.     Well,  I  wasn' 

prepared  for  an  ixploration,  so  I  felt  satisfied 

and  returruned  in  a  leisurely  way.     This  fus 

transverse  passage  corroborated,  as  you  see 

the  manuscript  story,  together  with  the  story 

of  me   cousin   Malachi,  in   ivery  particular 

And  now,  as  I  walked  back,  I  noticed  the 

slabs  with  the   inscriptions.      I  stopped   to 

look  at  a  few.     I  noticed  the  mixture  of  let 

ters  which  Aloysius  mintioned;   that  is  to 

say,   Greek    characters    were    mingled   with 

Latin,   and    Greek   names   and  words  were 

spelled  with  Latin  letters.     It  was  this  that 

confused   Aloysius,  no   doubt,  who   couldn't 

have  known  a  word  of  Greek,  nor  even  the 

Greek   alphabet.     Most  of  these  slabs  were 

dingy  and  grimy,  and  the  letters  were  not 

very  deep  cut  or  well  formed.     At  length  I 

noticed  one  that  was  less  dingy.     It  was  the 

second  from  the  floor,  in  a  tier  of  four,  and 

the  letters  were  deep  cut  and  well  made.     I 

stopped,  and   held  up  my  lamp  to  read  it. 

Well,  there  I  saw  the  usual  monogram,  which 

I  described  to  you  before,  ye  remember,  and 

under  it  I  read  these  words : 

"  '  In  Christo.  Pax.  Antonino  Imperatore, 
Marius  miks  sanguinem  effudit  pro  Christo. 
DorrAit  in  Pace?  '•' 

"By  Jove!"  cried  Blake.  "You  didn't 
though,  did  you?  Why,  that's  the  very  in- 
scription  that  Aloysius  mentioned  !  " 

"The  very  inscription,"  said  O'Rourke, 
solemnly.  "  You  may  imagine  how  I  felt.  I 
can't  describe.  Anyhow,  there  I  stood,  lean 
ing  forward,  and  reading  this,  whin  suddenly 
I  trod  on  something  that  gave  a  dull  rattle 
like  gravel.  I  stooped  down,  and  saw  a  lot 
of  these  beads.  Some  were  lying  in  a  line, 
others  had  been  thrust  aside  by  my  feet.  The 
string  that  had  fastened  them  together  was 
gone.  It  had,  no  doubt,  mouldered  away. 
Now,  whose  could  that  have  been  ?  Not  the 
rosary  of  an  ancient  Christian,  for  they  didn't 
have  thim.  Not  the  rosary  of  me  cousin  Mai- 
achi,  for  the  string  couldn't  have  rotted  away 
in  so  short  a  time ;  it  must,  thin,  have  been 


the  rosary  of  the  monk  Aloysius,  or  of  th» 
poor  Onofrio ;  one  of  those  two,  no  doubt ; 
and,  perhaps,  whin  they  stopped  to  read  this 
epitaph,  it  fell  from  the  one  it  belonged  to 
without  its  fall  being  noticed.  I  picked  up 
all  the  beads,  and  I  put  a  bit  of  a  string 
through  thim,  for  convenience'  sake." 

Blake  took  the  rosary,  and  looked  at  it 
with  indescribable  interest. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  it  must  be,  as  you  say, 
the  rosary  of  Aloysius." 

"  Of  course,  it  must,"  said  O'Rourke. 

"It's  perfectly  amazing,"  said  Blake. 

"Excuse  me,"   said   O'Rourke,  "it's   all 

perfectly  natural.     The  only  wonderful  thing 

about  it  all  is,  that  I  should  have  been  lucky 

enough  to  break  into  the  grave.     If  I  had 

come  to  the  solid  stone,  I  might  have  had  a 

month's  hard  work,  at  least.     But,  whin  once 

I  got  inside,  it  was  quite  natural,  whin  you 

think  of  it,  that  I  should  find  this  very  pas- 

ge  of  Aloysius." 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Blake,  still  looking 
at  the  beads. 

O'Rourke  now  poured  out  another  glass 
of  cognac. 

"Well,"  said  he,  as  he  sipped  it,  "what 
are  ye  going  to  do  ?  Are  ye  ready  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Blake,  "not  only  ready, 
but  eager.  I'm  ready  to  start  off  now,  this 
very  instant." 

'That's  right,"  said  O'Rourke;  "and  ye 
haven't  told  any  one  ?  " 

"  Not  a  soul — of  course  not." 
" Well,  I  didn't  know;  a  man  sometimes 
las  connections  that  it's  difficult  to  keep  a 
ecret  from.  Ye're  a  young  man,  ye  know ; 
landsome,  and  mighty  taking  with  the  ladies ; 
and,  if  ye  had  one  in  tow,  she  might  see  in 
yer  face  that  ye  were  after  something,  and 
worrum  it  out  of  ye." 

Oh,  no;  there's  nothing  of  that  kind  go 
ng  on,"  said  Blake,  with  a  mournful  thought 
f  Inez. 

Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  for  it  would 
poil  all,"  said  O'Rourke.  "  At  any  rate,  here 
.  am,  and  here  you  are,  and  every  thing's 
eady.  We  needn't  leave  this  moment,  but 
we'd  better  start  as  soon  as  we  can.  Will  ye 
>e  able  to  go  by  the  morruning's  train  ?  " 
"Yes." 

"Any  letters  ye  have  to  write  ye  can 
rite  to-night,  and  mail  as  we  go  to  the  sta- 
on,  only  ye  won't  say  any  thing  about  what 
is  ye're  after  ?  " 


98 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


"Of  course  not.  I  shall  simply  write  one 
or  two  letters,  and  mention  that  I  am  going 
out  of  town  on  business  for  a  month  or 

BO." 

"  That's  right,"  said  O'Rourke,  with  evi 
dent  gratification.  "Thin,  if  nothing  does 
come  of  it,  ye  won't  git  laughed  at.  We'll 
keep  our  own  secret,  and,  if  we  fail,  there'll 
be  no  harrum  done  at  all,  at  all.  I'm  glad 
ye  kept  the  secret  so  well.  It  shows  that 
myjudgmint  about  ye  was  right,  and  I'm  glad 
of  it.  A  companion  and  assistant  I  mast 
have,  and  I'd  rather  have  you  than  anybody 
I  know  of.  Ye'll  be  not  only  a  fellow-laborer 
and  business  partner,  but  also  a  friend  in 
case  of  need.  I  couldn't  get  on  alone  at  all, 
at  all.  I'm  not  timid,  and  I'm  not  what  you'd 
call  shuperstitious,  but  working  alone  down 
there  in  a  place  like  that  is  a  test  of  a  man's 
nerruvcs  that  I  don't  care  to  impose  on  me- 
silf.  Besides,  apart  from  that,  there's  worruk 
required  down  there  that  one  man  wouldn't 
be  enough  for.  We've  got  to  take  ropes,  and 
ladders,  and  lights,  and,  in  the  evint  of  suc 
cess,  we've  got  to  carry  some  store  of  articles 
that'll  be  likely  to  have  some  weight  in  thim 
for  a  long  distance.  There  ought  to  be  enough 
down  there  to  satisfy  two  min,  or,  for  that 
matter,  two  thousand,  so  I  don't  objict  to  go 
halves  with  ye  for  the  plisure  of  yer  com 
pany." 

"Well,  old  fellow,  come  now,  it  don't 
seem  hardly  fair  to  you  to  come  in  for  so 
much,  when  you  have  had  all  the  trouble 
thus  far,  and  the  secret  is  yours,  too." 

"Pooh!  we  needn't  talk  now  about  the 
division,"  said  O'Rourke;  "that's  counting 
the  chickens  before  they're  hatched  in  the 
worrust  way.  It  may  be  a  total  failure,  so  it 
may.  Ye'd  best  be  after  trying  to  prepare 
yersilf  for  any  disappointmint." 

"  Oh,  well,  of  course  I  shall  do  that,  you 
know." 

"  And  ye'll  have  time  to  write  to  yer 
friends." 

"Yes." 

"  How  manv  letters  did  ye  say  ye'd  have 
to  write?" 

"  Two." 

"  Two  ?  Hm!  and  ye'll  have  to  be  readj 
to  start  at  five,  and  it's  now  half-past  one,' 
said  O'Rourke.  "  I  must  be  after  going." 

"  Half-past  one  ! "  said  Blake,  in  surprise 
"Why,  so  it  is;  I  had  no  idea  it  was  s 
late." 


"Well,   I'll  be  going,"   said   O'Rourke; 
"  so  ye'll  write  yer  letters  at  once  to  yer  two 
friends ?     I  hope  they're  not  both  ladies?  " 
"  Oh,  no,  only  one  of  them  is  a  lady." 
"And  ye'll  be  very  guarded,  so  as  not  to 
et  on  what  ye're  after  doing  ?  "  said  O'Rourke, 
autiously. 

"  Oh,  you  may  trust  me  for  that." 
"  Well,  I'll  be  going,  and  let  me  advise 
ye  to  try  to  get  some  sleep.  Ye're  too  ex 
ited,  man.  Write  yer  letters,  go  to  bed, 
and  sleep  the  sleep  of  the  just.  Thin  ye'll  be 
better  prepared  for  future  wcrruk  and  future 
excitemint.  Ye're  altogether  too  flushed,  and 
excited,  and  feverish-looking  just  now." 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  I  am  just  a  little  more 
excited  than  usual,"  said  Blake ;  "  but  it  will 
)ass  away  soon  enough." 

"Well,  I'll  be  going,"  said  O'Rourke 
again.  "  I'll  come  here  for  ye  in  the  morrun- 
:ng.  Good-night." 

He  wrung  Blake's  hand  with  his  usual 
heartiness,  and  then  left. 

After  his  departure,  Blake  sat  for  some 
time  without  moving.  The  intense  excite 
ment  into  which  he  had  been  thrown  by 
O'Rourke's  story  still  affected  him.  His 
heart  beat  fast  and  furious,  and  a  thousand 
dazzling  visions  of  endless  treasures  swept 
before  his  mind.  All  the  accumulated  fancies 
of  the  last  few  days  now  arose  up  together  in 
one  vast  assemblage,  till  his  brain  fairly 
reeled  beneath  their  overmastering  power. 
He  was  confounded  by  the  magnitude  of  his 
own  hopes;  he  was  bewildered  by  the  im 
mensity  of  the  treasure  which  O'Rourke  had 
suggested. 

He  sat  motionless  for  about  an  hour,, 
when  suddenly  he  started  to  his  feet. 

"This  will  never  do,"  he  murmured;  "I 
must  write  those  letters." 

He  then  went  to  the  table  and  poured  out 
some  cognac,  which  he  drank  off  hurriedly. 
Then  he  procured  writing-materials,  and  sat 
down  to  write.  But  it  was  a  very  difficult 
task.  His  mind  was  so  full  of  other  things 
that  his  dazzling  thoughts  intruded  them 
selves  into  his  letter,  making  nonsense  of  it. 
Three  or  four  were  torn  up  and  thrown  aside. 
At  last  he  managed  to  write  out  a  rough 
draft,  full  of  corrections,  and,  after  reading 
this  over,  it  seemed  as  well  as  any  thing  else 
that  he  could  write  under  the  circumstances. 
This,  then,  he  copied  out,  and  what  he  wrote 
was  the  following : 


T     _ 


BLAKE  TAKES  LEAVE  OF  HIS  FRIENDS. 


99 


"  MY  DEAR  HELLMUTH  :  I  intend  to  start 
off  in  the  first  train  to-morrow  on  business. 
I  have  heard  of  a  chance  of  doing  something 
in  the  South,  and  think  it  advisable  to  try. 
I  may  be  gone  some  time,  and  I  may  return 
in  less  time.  A  party  is  going  to  accompany 
me,  with  whom  I  propose  to  associate  my 
self.  Nothing  may  come  of  this,  but  I  think 
it  is  best,  under  the  circumstances,  for  me  to 
try  what  can  be  done.  On  the  whole,  I  think 
it  is  advisable  to  try.  It  is  somewhere  in  the 
South,  and  my  friend  who  goes  with  me  will 
do  what  he  can.  I  may  return  soon,  but  I 
don't  know,  and  if  I  can  do  any  thing  I  may 
not  come  back  for  some  time. 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

"  BASIL  BLAKE." 

On  reading  this  over,  it  struck  Blake  as  a 
most  absurd  production,  but  he  had  already 
made  some  half-dozen  previous  attempts 
which  were  even  worse,  and  so,  in  despair,  he 
concluded  to  let  it  go  as  it  was,  and  not  at 
tempt  another.  It  was  better  to  write  some 
thing  than  to  vanish  suddenly  without  a 
word,  and,  at  any  rate,  in  spite  of  the  ab 
surdity  of  the  note,  it  did  convey  a  friendly 
notice  to  Hellmuth  of  his  departure.  So 
Blake  folded  this,  and  addressed  it  to  Kane 
Hellmuth. 

The  next  letter  was  even  a  greater  task, 
for  the  effort  to  write  the  first  one  had  in 
some  measure  increased  his  confusion  of 
mind,  and  caused  him  to  express  himself  even 
more  awkwardly.  After  over  an  hour  of  hard 
work  he  accomplished  the  following : 

"  MY  DEAR  MOTHER  :  I  have  not  heard  from 
you  for  some  time.  It  is  more  than  a  month 
since  I  have  heard  from  you.  You  informed 
me  that  you  were  going  to  go  to  London, 
and  I  have  not  heard  from  you  since.  I 
would  go  home  and  see  how  you  are,  for  I 
feel  some  anxiety  about  you,  but  just  now  an 
event  has  occurred  which  seems  to  promise 
something  in  the  way  of  professional  advance 
ment.  If  it  turns  out  well,  I  may  stay  there 
some  time.  If  it  does  not  turn  out  well,  I 
may  not  stay  there  some  time.  The  party 
who  is  going  there  with  me  is  a  friend  of 
mine,  and  a  professional  friend  of  mine.  He 
thinks  the  chances  there  are  good,  and,  if  so, 
we  shall  both  of  us  probably  remain  there 
some  time  probably.  However,  I  do  not 
know  exactly  how  long  we  shall  stay  there  ; 
some  time,  however,  in  case  of  success  ;  but, 


if  not,  of  course  not.  You  need  not  write 
unless  you  write  to  me;  however,  we  may 
not  be  gone  very  long  probably. 

"  A  party  has  mentioned  a  good  prospect 
of  success  in  the  South— a  professional  friend 
of  mine,  and  we  shall  probably  work  together^ 
I  shall  not  probably  write  to  you  again  until 
the  next  time  I  write.  I  think,  therefore, 
that  I  had  better  leave  in  the  first  train  to 
morrow  morning ;  but,  if  we  are  not  success 
ful,  of  course  I  shall  probably  be  back  soon. 
Unless  we  succeed,  I  shall,  however,  not 
make  a  very  long  stay.  However,  that  de 
pends  upon  circumstances  to  some  extent. 

"You  will  probably  be  surprised,  dear 
mother,  to  learn  that  it  is  my  intention  to 
leave  this  city  by  the  first  train  to-morrow 
morning  for  the  South.  The  reason  of  this 
somewhat  sudden  departure  is  this  :  there  is 
a  professional  friend  of  mine  who  has  been 
talking  to  me  about  that  country,  and  he 
would  like  me  to  go  with  him.  If  we  are 
successful,  we  may  not,  however,  return  long. 
I  have  decided  to  go  in  the  first  train  to 
morrow  morning  to  the  South  with  a  party 
who  is  a  professional  friend  of  mine,  and  we 
both  hope  to  find  a  place  there  where  we 
shall  be  able  to  do  better  for  ourselves.  In 
case  I  am  successful,  I  hope,  of  course,  that 
you  will  write  me  as  often  as  you  possibly 
can,  for  I  am  beginning  to  feel  quite  anxious 
about  you.  Hoping  soon  to  hear  from  you 
— I  shall,  therefore,  go  and  see  for  myself. 
Write  me  often,  dear  mother,  and  believe  me 
your  affectionate  son, 

"BASIL." 

Blake  did  not  read  this  letter  over,  but 
managed  to  fold  it  and  put  it  in  the  envelop. 
He  had  not  enough  of  consciousness  left  to 
address  it;  but,  having  gone  that  far,  his 
head  fell  forward  on  the  table,  and  he  slept 
profoundly. 

He  had  not  been  sleeping  long  before  he 
was  roused  by  a  rough  shaking.  lie  sprang 
up  and  saw  O'Rourke,  who  burst  into  a  shout 
of  laughter. 

"  So  this  is  the  way  you  sleep,  is  it  ?  "  he 
cried.  "Your  head  on  the  table  and  your 
door  open  to  the  public.  So  you've  got  your 
letters  written,  though  one  of  thim  isn't  ad 
dressed.  It  might  go  strayhter  if  you  were 
to  address  it." 

Blake  stared  and  stammered,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  he  could  collect  his  scat 
tered  faculties. 


100 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


"  Why— why— you  just  left—" 

"Tare  and  ages,  man!  why,  it's  five 
o'clock,"  cried  O'Rourke. 

"  Five  o'clock  ! "  gasped  Blake. 

"  Yes.  Are  you  ready  ?  Are  your  trunks 
packed  ?  Ye  needn't  take  mor'n  a  valise  with 
ye.  But  ye'll  be  alter  gathering  up  yer  duds, 
and  not  leaving  thim  scattered  about." 

Upon  this  Blake  hurriedly  went  about 
gathering  some  things  which  ne  threw  into  a 
valise.  Those  which  he  did  not  want  to  take 
with  him  he  flung  into  a  trunk,  and  then 
locked  it.  Then,  at  0'  Kourke'a  suggestion, 
he  addressed  the  letter  to  his  mother,  and 
stuffed  the  two  in  his  pockets.  Tnen,  hur 
riedly  attending  to  his  toilet,  he  announced 
that  he  was  ready. 

They  then  went  down.  A  cab  TV  as  ready. 
Blake  told  the  concierge  to  take  cave  of  his 
trunk. 

On  their  way  to  the  station  he  dropped 
his  letters  in  the  post-office  box. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

DESCENSUS     AVERNl! 

IT  was  Blake's  first  visit  to  Rome.  Under 
any  other  circumstances,  he  would  have  yield- 
ed  to  that  manifold  charm  which  the  Eternal 
City  exercises  over  every  mind  that  possesses 
a  particle  of  enthusiasm,  and  would  have 
found  himself  at  once  examining  the  treas 
ures  which  here,  more  than  in  any  other  part 
of  the  world,  are  stored  up,  and  serve  to  il 
lustrate  and  to  emphasize  the  teachings  of 
antiquity,  of  religion,  and  of  art.  But  the 
circumstances  were  unusual,  and  Blake's 
mind  was  all  preoccupied  with  thoughts  of  a 
treasure  of  a  different  kind.  Already  the 
wonderful  story  of  Aloysius  had  borne  fruit 
within  his  mind,  as  we  have  seen  ;  and,  since 
his  departure  from  Paris,  O'Rourke  had  left 
nothing  unsaid  which  could  stimulate  his 
imagination,  or  excite  his  most  sanguine 
hope.  His  efforts  in  this  direction  were  not 
made  by  means  of  any  attempts  at  direct 
description,  but  rather  through  what  might 
be  regarded  as  dry  details  or  formal  statistics. 
He  talked  learnedly  about  the  revenue  of  the 
Roman  Empire ;  of  the  arbitrary  modes  by 
which  the  emperors  extorted  money ;  of  the 
wealth  of  Rome,  created  out  of  the  plunder 
of  the  wcrld  ;  of  the  immunity  from  plunder 


which  Rome  itself  had  enjoyed ;  and  of  the 
condition  of  the  city  at  the  time  of  Alaric'a 
approach.  He  made  estimates  of  the  wealth 
of  the  imperial  palace,  and  other  estimates 
of  the  probable  value  of  the  plunder  which 
was  carried  away  by  the  army  of  Alaric.  All 
his  figures  were  in  millions.  He  assumed  a 
confident  air  in  speaking  about  the  treasure 
which  was  concealed  in  the  Catacombs,  and 
sometimes  allowed  himself  to  speculate  on 
the  value  of  that  treasure. 

By  this  means  he  kept  Blake's  mind  strung 
up  to  the  proper  degree  of  enthusiasm  and 
excitement;  so  that  at  length,  on  reaching 
Rome,  he  had  no  other  thought  or  desire  than 
to  enter  upon  the  search  without  delay.  In 
deed,  so  eager  was  he,  and  so  much  did  his 
excitement  surpass  that  of  his  friend,  that  he 
would  have  hurried  to  the  spot  at  once,  had 
not  O'Rourke  objected. 

"  Sure  and  this'll  niver  do  entirely,"  said 
the  latter.  "  Don't  ye  remimber  the  proverb, 
'  The  more  haste,  the  less  speed  ? '  D'ye 
think  we're  in  a  fit  state  to  begin  a  laborious 
task  like  ours,  whin  we're  overwhelmed  by 
fatigue  and  starvation  ?  For  my  part,  I  want 
a  good  dinner,  a  good  night's  rist,  and  a  good 
breakfast.  "We  have  also  to  make  jue  prepa 
rations.  I've  got  a  list  of  things  that  we  re 
quire,  that  we  can't  get  till  to-morrow.  So 
ye'li  have  to  make  up  yer  mind  to  wait.  It's 
lucky  that  ye've  got  me  to  think  for  ye,  so  it 
is." 

Blake's  impatience  rebelled  against  any 
delay,  however  necessary ;  but  he  had  to  yield 
to  the  sober  sense,  the  prudent  counsels,  and 
the  wise  forethought  of  his  companion.  In 
fact,  there  was  no  help  for  it,  as  O'Rourke  had 
the  matter  all  in  his  own  hands,  and  no  move 
ment  could  be  made  without  him.  By  this 
delay  Blake's  impatience  and  excitement  were, 
if  possible,  only  increased.  He  had  scarcely 
slept  since  O'Rourke's  last  meeting  with  him ; 
and  this  night  of  waiting,  from  the  very  fact 
that  it  separated  him  from  the  wonders  that 
awaited  him  on  the  morrow,  afforded  too 
much  stimulus  to  his  fancy  to  allow  of  any 
thing  like  real  sleep.  His  brain  was  in  a 
whirl,  and  the  fitful  snatches  of  sleep  that  he 
caught  in  the  intervals  of  his  wild  specula 
tions  were  filled  with  dreams  that  were,  if 
possible,  wilder  still. 

On  the  following  morning,  Blake  arose  at 
a  very  early  hour,  and  waited  with  much  im 
patience  the  movements  of  O'Rourke.  The 


DESCENSUS  AVERNI! 


101 


latter,  however,  seemed  in  no  hurry  whatever. 
Several  times  Blake  knocked  at  his  door,  but 
received  only  a  half-sleepy  assurance  that  he 
was  not  awake  yet.  It  was  as  late  as  ten 
o'clock  when  O'Rourke  made  his  appearance. 
"  Salve  !  "  said  he  ;  "  in  Room  I  salute  ye 
as  a  Roman.  In  other  terrums,  the  top  of 
the  morruning  to  ye." 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Blake.  «  Shall  we 
go  now  ?  " 

O'Rourke  looked  at  him  for  a  few  mo 
ments  with  a  reproachful  gaze. 

"How  impatient  ye  are,"  said  he,  "to  go 
down  to  the  tomb  ! " 

"Don't  you  think  we're  losing  time?" 
said  Blake,  a  little  disturbed,  in  spite  of  him 
self,  at  an  indescribable  quality  in  O'Rourke's 
tone. 

"  Losing  time,  is  it  ?  Gaining  time,  I  call 
it.  Let's  «ot  go  down  there  till  we've  seen 
the  sun  set  in  glory  from  one  of  the  sivin 
hills  of  Room.  For  my  part,  I'm  not  going 
down  till  night — and  there  ye  have  it." 

This  resolution  Blake  found  it  impossible 
to  change ;  so  he  was  compelled  to  smother 
his  impatience  as  best  he  might,  and  wait  for 
O'Rourke  to  lead  the  way. 

All  that  day  O'Rourke  obstinately  refused 
to  say  one  word  about  the  Catacombs,  or  the 
treasure  cf  the  Caesars,  or  the  history  of  the 
middle  ages.  He  frowned  whenever  Blake  in 
troduced  those  subjects.  He  sought  pertina 
ciously  and  resolutely  to  keep  his  own  mind 
and  that  of  Blake  fixed  upon  other  subjects, 
as  far  removed  from  these  as  possible. 

"Ye'll  have  enough  of  it  when  ye  get 
down  there.  Sure,  it's  bracing  yer  mind  that 
I  am,  in  preparation  for  the  orjeal  that's  be 
fore  ye." 

O'Rourke  took  him  first  to  the  Pincian 
Hill,  and  insisted  on  showing  him  the  view 
from  that  place.  After  this  he  dragged  him 
to  the  Villa  Borghese,  and  thence  to  the  Coli 
seum.  Here  he  pointed  out  the  peculiarities 
of  the  structure,  regarding  it  both  from  an 
archaeological  and  an  artistic  point  of  view. 
Prom  this  place  he  set  out  for  St.  Peter's. 

"I  wish  ye  to  notice,"  said  he,  "the 
sharp  contrast  existing  between  each  of  these 
schupindous  monimints.  The  one  is  the  im- 
blim  of  pagan,  the  other  of  Christian  Room. 
They  are  each  symbols  of  the  instichutions 
out  of  which  they  sprung.  The  one  is  the 
fit  exponint  of  that  material  Room  that  wield 
ed  its  shuprimacy  through  the  mejiura  of 


brute  force ;  the  other  the  exponint  of  that 
spiritual  Room  that  exercised  its  shuprimacy 
through  the  higher  mejium  of  the  abstract, 
the  immaterial,  the  shupernatural.  And,  as 
this  mighty  fane  is  grander  and  nobler  thin 
the  pagan  amphitheatre,  so  also  is  the  Room 
of  the  popes  a  grander  and  nobler  thing  thin 
the  Room  of  the  impirors." 

To  most  of  these  discourses  Blake  was 
not  in  a  mood  for  listening;  but  the  manner 
of  O'Rourke  surprised  him  and  impressed 
him.  He  felt  puzzled,  yet  he  tried  to  think 
that  it  was  some  eccentric  plan  of  his  friend's 
to  draw  his  mind  out  of  its  too-excited  state, 
and  reduce  it  to  a  common-sense  calm  and 
self-contained  repose.  This  O'Rourke  an 
nounced  as  his  purpose,  and,  as  no  other  ex 
planation  was  forthcoming,  Blake  was  forced 
to  accept  it. 

At  length  the  day  began  to  decline,  and 
O'Rourke  announced  his  intention  of  going 
to  their  place  of  destination. 

The  darkness  came  on  rapidly,  as  is  t!-:e 
case  in  this  southern  clime,  and  Blake  no 
ticed  but  little  of  the  scenes  through  which 
he  passed.  Even  had  it  been  light,  his  ig 
norance  of  Rome  would  have  prevented  him 
from  observing  any  thing  with  intelligent  in 
terest.  Once  O'Rourke  pointed  to  a  large 
building  and  said,  "  We're  coming  near,  that's 
the  Monastery  of  San  Antonio."  Blake  saw 
a  gloomy  and  shadowy  pile  in  a  narrow 
street,  but  could  not  make  much  out  of  it. 
They  had  not  much  farther  to  walk  after  this, 
but  soon  reached  a  dilapidated  house  of  an 
cient  architecture  and  large  size,  correspond 
ing  in  appearance  with  the  description  which 
O'Rourke  had  given  of  the  house  that  he  had 
rented.  The  doorway  was  low,  and  consisted 
of  an  archway  of  massive  stones.  The  doors 
were  massive,  and  studded  with  large  iron 
bolts.  The  street  in  which  it  stood  was  nar 
row  and  dark,  and  the  exterior  of  the  sombre 
edifice  threw  an  additional  gloom  over  the 
scene  around. 

O'Rourke  opened  the  door  in  silence,  and 
motioned  to  Blake  to  go  in.  Blake  did  so. 
Thereupon  O'Rourke  followed,  and  carefully 
bolted  the  massive  door.  Blake  threw  a 
glance  about  him.  He  saw  that  there  was  a 
court-yard,  around  which  appeared  the  sides 
of  the  gloomy  edifice,  from  which  a  deep 
shadow  was  thrown  down.  O'Rourke  did  not 
allow  him  to  look  long  upon  this  uninviting 
scene,  but  went  to  a  door  which  he  unlocked! 


102 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


Blake  followed  him.  They  entered  a  narrow 
hall,  and  O'Rourke  carefully  closed  the  door 
behind  him  and  locked  it. 

He  then  lighted  a  lantern,  and,  without  a 
word,  walked  along  the  hall  till  he  came  to  a 
narrow  stone  stairway.  Blake  followed  him. 
Down  this  narrow  stone  stairway  the  two 
went,  and  at  length  reached  a  chamber  under 
neath.  This  chamber  was  vaulted,  and  the 
walls  were  composed  of  large  stones,  white 
washed.  O'Rourke  did  not  wait  here  a  mo 
ment,  but  walked  on,  followed  by  Blake.  A 
narrow  arched  passage  led  from  this  vaulted 
chamber,  and,  passing  through  this,  they 
came  to  a  large  cellar,  from  which  the  cham 
ber  had  evidently  been  walled  off.  The  cellar 
was  about  eight  feet  in  height,  and  was  formed 
of  solid  piers,  which  were  vaulted  over,  so 
as  to  support  the  massive  structure  above. 
These  piers  and  the  vaulted  roof  were  all 
grimy  with  dust  and  smoke,  and  covered  with 
mould.  The  floor  was  formed  of  large  slabs 
of  stone. 

O'Rourke  still  walked  on,  and,  after  pass 
ing  several  piers,  at  length  stopped. 

As  he  stopped,  he  turned  and  looked  for 
a  moment  at  Blake.  Then,  without  a  word, 
he  pointed  toward  his  left,  folding  up  his 
lantern  at  the  same  time  so  that  its  light 
might  shine  upon  the  place.  Blake  looked, 
and  saw  a  pile  of  rubbish.  The  next  moment 
he  sprang  toward  it,  and  O'Rourke,  moving 
nearer,  held  his  lantern  so  as  to  light  up  the 
place. 

Blake  stooped  down  and  looked  forward 
with  a  new  outburst  of  those  excited  feelings 
which  had  been  repressed  all  day.  The  pile 
of  nibbish  lay  against  the  wall  in  which  there 
was  a  large  excavation,  terminating  in  a  black 
hole  of  oblong  shape.  It  was  the  hole  that 
O'Rourke  had  told  him  of.  This  was  the 
place,  and  this  was  the  entrance  to  those 
dazzling  fortunes  that  awaited  him. 

Carried  away  by  a  sudden  impulse,  he 
hurried  forward,  and  would  have  gone  through 
that  black  opening;  but  O'Rourke  laid  his 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  drew  him  back 
in  silence. 

O'Rourke  now  went  to  the  middle  of  the 
cellar  to  a  place  about  twenty  feet  from  the 
opening,  and  put  down  his  lantern  on  the 
stone  floor.  Blake  came  up  to  the  place  and 
saw  a  number  of  articles  lying  there.  Promi 
nent  among  these  was  a  light  wooden  ladder 
about  ten  feet  long.  There  was  also  a  box 


of  solid  construction  on  four  small  wheels  ;  a 
stout  wicker  basket  with  two  handles ;  a  coil 
of  rope ;  a  roll  of  canvas  ;  a  small  furnace  ;  a 
crucible  ;  three  lanterns  ;  a  vessel  of  oil ;  two 
pickaxes  ;  two  crow-bars  ;  an  axe ;  several 
balls  of  twine  ;  together  with  some  smaller  ar 
ticles  of  a  miscellaneous  character.  O'Rourke 
had  already  informed  Blake  that  he  had 
made  a  hurried  collection  of  all  the  articles 
of  immediate  necessity  before  he  had  left 
Rome  for  Paris,  and  the  present  spectacle 
showed  the  latter  how  diligent  he  had 
been.  These  served  as  eloquent  reminders  of 
O'Rourke's  story,  and  as  forcible  suggestions 
of  the  work  that  lay  before  them. 

Blake's  first  act  was  to  take  one  of  the 
lanterns.  He  drew  some  matches  from  his 
pocket,  and  proceeded  to  light  it.  Being  a 
smoker,  he  always  carried  matches.  These 
were  destined  to  be  useful  afterward.  Hav 
ing  succeeded  in  lighting  his  lantern,  he 
iooked  at  O'Rourke,  and  waited  for  the  next 
movement.  He  caught  O'Rourke's  eyes  fixed 
on  him  with  an  intent  air  of  watchfulness. 
For  a  moment  Blake  felt  a  slight  uneasiness, 
but  at  once  shook  it  off.  O'Rourke's  look 
had  struck  him  as  being  slightly  unpleasant, 
but  the  thought  immediately  came  to  him 
that  his  friend  was  merely  watching  to  see 
whether  he  was  cool  or  excited.  So  the  only 
effect  of  this  apparently-sinister  glance  was 
to  cool  off  a  little  of  Blake's  excitement. 

O'Rourke  now  took  the  ladder  and  walked 
toward  the  excavation  in  the  wall.  Blake 
followed  him,  carrying  his  lantern,  and  noth 
ing  else.  O'Rourke  crawled  through  the  ob 
long  opening,  and  then  drew  his  ladder  after 
him.  Blake  followed  in  silence.  He  put  his 
feet  through  first.  About  four  feet  below 
the  opening,  his  feet  touched  a  foothold,  and 
then  he  drew  himself  altogether  inside,  and, 
holding  up  his  lantern,  stared  eagerly  around 
him. 

It  was  not  much  that  met  his  view.  He 
found  himself  inside  a  passage-way  excavated 
in  the  solid  rock.  The  rock  was  a  species  of 
sandstone.  Its  hue  was  dark,  and  its  surface 
still  bore  rough  marks  made  by  the  tools  of 
the  ancient  excavators.  The  height  was 
about  seven  feet,  or  a  little  over.  The  wall 
was  covered  with  slabs  which  bore  rudely-cut 
inscriptions.  These  slabs  were  of  a  lighter 
color  than  the  wall,  and  of  a  smoother  finish. 
They  were  placed  against  the  wall,  one  over 
the  other.  Immediately  opposite  him  were 


DESCENSUS  AVERNI! 


103 


three,  and  above  and  below  the  opening 
through  which  he  had  come  were  two  others. 
Before  and  behind  him  was  thick  and  im 
penetrable  darkness. 

Before  him  O'Rourke  was  standing.  His 
back  was  turned  toward  him.  The  ladder 
which  he  had  brought  was  standing  on  the 
ground,  and  the  upper  part  resting  against 
his  shoulder.  He  seemed  not  to  be  looking  at 
any  thing  in  particular,  for  his  head  was  bent 
forward  as  though  he  was  in  deep  thought — 
as  though  he  was  meditating  the  best  plan  of 
advancing.  Blake  waited  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then,  feeling  eager  to  go  on,  he  touched 
O'Rourke's  shoulder. 

Thus  far  O'Rourke's  behavior  had  been 
most  extraordinary.  From  the  moment  that 
he  had  locked  the  outer  doors  he  had  not 
spoken  a  word.  Blake  had  been  impressed  in 
spite  of  himself  by  the  silence  of  his  com 
panion,  and  had  said  nothing.  Now,  how 
ever,  as  Blake  touched  O'Rourke's  shoulder, 
the  latter  started  and  half  turned. 

"  Well,  Blake,  me  boy,"  said  he,  in  a  cheer 
ful  tone,  u  here  we  are  at  last  amid  the  mould 
ering  rimnints  of  the  apostolic  marchures  that 
deposited  their  bones  and  raised  thim  ipitaphs  ; 
sure,  but  it's  meself  that  would  be  the  proud 
man  to  linger  here  and  dally  with  me  archaeo 
logical  riminiscincis.  It's  a  fine  field,  so  it  is, 
for  classical  inthusiasm.  The  actual  fact 
bangs  all  the  ilivatid  splindors  of  Virgilian 
diction.  Sure,  but  it's  careful  we've  got  to  be 
here ;  it's  easy  enough,  so  it  is,  to  go,  but 
we've  got  to  take  precautionary  misures  about 
securing  a  returrun.  Sure  ye  know  yerself 
how  it  is : 

....  'Facilis  descinsns  Averni; 
Noctes  atqtie  dies  patet  atri  janua  Ditis  ; 
Sed  revocare    gradu.ni,    ehuperasque  evadere   ad 

auras 

Hoc  opus,  hie  labor  est.  Panel,  quos  aequns  amavit 
Jupiter,  aut  ardens  evexit  ad  aethera  virtus, 
Dis  geniti,  potuere.' 

"  By-the-way,  now  that  I  come  to  think 
of  it,"  he  continued,  "it  would  be  an  iligant 
question  intirely  whither  Yirgil  didn't  get  some 
of  his  conceptions  of  the  under  worruld  from 
these  Catacombs  ;  but  thin,  howlding,  as  I 
do,  the  theory  of  their  Christian  origin,  that 
position  would  be  altogither  ontinible." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  dare  say,"  said  Blake,  indif 
ferently  ;  "  but  don't  you  think  we  had  better 
be  moving  ?  " 

At  this  O'Rourke  turned  and  looked  at 
him  with  a  fixed  gaze  and  a  slight  smile. 


"  Blake,  me  boy,"  said  he,  "  I  have  de 
tected  in  you  all  this  day  and  evening  a  de 
plorable  tindincy  to  unjue  exeitemint.  Now, 
if  one  thing  is  prayiminintly  necissitatid  in  an 
ixploration  of  this  discription,  it's  perfect 
coolniss  and  sang-froid.  Ye  are  too  feverish ; 
ye  must  git  cooler.  Ye'll  lose  yer  head  like 
poor  Onofrio,  and  vanish  from  me  gaze  in 
some  of  these  schupindis  labyrinthine  wilder- 
nissis.  Try,  thin,  if  ye  can,  to  banish  from 
yer  mind  the  dazzling  visions  that  are  luring 
ye  out  of  yer  sinses.  The  conversation  that  I 
mean  to  maintain  here  isn't  going  to  be  about 
any  thing  ixciting  or  sinsational,  but  rather 
upon  those  august  subjicts  that  give  tone  and 
inergy  to  the  mind.  Let  us  wander  onward, 
thin,  not  as  vulgar  money-diggers  or  trisure- 
hunters,  but  as  learned  archaeologists." 

With  these  words  O'Rourke  shouldered 
his  ladder,  and  walked  on  at  a  moderate  pace. 
Blake  followed.  The  passage  as  they  went 
on  continued  to  preserve  the  same  dimensions. 
On  either  side  appeared  the  tablets  that  cov 
ered  the  tombs,  bearing  their  inscriptions.  Its 
course  was  not  exactly  sti'aight,  yet  the  curve 
was  a  gentle  one.  No  side-passages  or  cross 
ings  appeared  for  some  time. 

At  length  a  crossing  appeared,  and  here 
O'Rourke  paused.  This  crossing  consisted 
of  a  passage  of  about  the  same  size  and  gen 
eral  appearance  as  the  one  which  they  were 
traversing ;  and  the  eye,  in  glancing  into  it 
from  either  side,  soon  lost  itself  in  the  im 
penetrable  gloom.  Here  O'Rourke  put  down 
his  ladder  and  the  lantern,  and  then  taking  a 
ball  of  twine  from  his  pocket,  he  fastened 
one  end  to  an  iron  bolt  which  he  had  brought 
for  that  purpose.  This  he  placed  on  the 
floor.  It  was  to  be  their  clew.  Thus  far  all 
was  plain  ;  but  beyond  this  he  dared  not  trust 
himself  without  this  safeguard.  He  now  took 
up  his  ladder  and  his  lantern.  Blake  insisted 
on  carrying  the  former,  and,  after  some  friendly 
altercation,  succeeded  in  doing  so.  O'Rourke 
now  held  the  lantern  in  one  hand,  and,  put 
ting  the  ball  in  his  pocket,  he  prepared  to  un 
roll  it  as  he  walked,  so  as  to  leave  the  clew  be 
hind  him. 

"  Sure,  Blake,  me  boy,"  said  he,  "  bat  this 
is  the  descint  into  the  inferrunal  worruld  that 
we've  read  about  at  school.  Here  we  are,  . 
we're  ^Eneas  and  Achates,  or,  better  yet, 
we're  Alcides  and  Theseus — we  won't  dis 
pute  which  is  which. — Have  ye  ever  read  the 
'  Hercules  Furens  ? '  I  warrant  ye  haven't. 


104: 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


Well,  it's  a  fine  worruk  ;  and  I've  been  maun 
dering  and  soliloquizing  over  some  of  its  lines 
that  are  mighty  appropriate  to  our  prisint 
adventurous  jourreny : 

'Non  prata  viridi  laeta  facie  germinant, 
Nee  adulta  leni  flnctuat  zephyro  seges  ; 
Non  ulla  ramos  silva  pomiferos  habet ; 
Sterilis  profundi  vastitas  equalet  soli, 
Et  foeda  tellus  torpet  aeterno  situ, 
Rerumque  moestus  finis  et  mundi  ultima, 
Irnmotus  aer  haeret,  et  pigro  eedet 
Nox  atra  mundo  ;  cuncta  moerore  horrida, 
Ipsaque  morte  pejor  est  mortis  locus.' 

"  Now,  that's  what  I  call  mighty  fine  poe 
try,"  said  O'Rourke,  "  and  I'll  jist  invite  ye  to 
projuice  any  other  passage  in  ancient  or  mod 
ern  poetry  that'll  beat  it.  Yes,  Blake,  me 
boy,  that's  it — '  ipsaque  morte  pejor  est  mor 
tis  locus  ! ' " 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  then,  unwinding 
the  string,  went  forward. 

Blake  followed. 

Yes,  O'Rourke  was  trying  to  quiet  his 
nerves  by  quoting  Latin.  Now  if  that  Latin 
had  been  pronounced  Oxford-fashion,  it  would 
not  have  been  very  intelligible  to  Blake,  but, 
being  spoken  with  the  Continental  pronuncia 
tion,  and  with  a  dash  of  Irish  brogue  running 
through  it,  he  did  not  comprehend  one  single 
word. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE     CITY     OF     THE     DEAD. 

O'RouRKE  thus  went  first,  unwinding  the 
string,  while  Blake  followed,  carrying  the 
ladder.  The  strange  silence  that  O'Rourke 
had  maintained  while  in  the  house  had  been 
succeeded  by  a  talkativeness  which  was 
equally  strange. 

"For  me  own  part,"  said  he,  as  he  walked 
along,  "  we  may  as  well  begyile  the  solichude 
of  the  jourreny  by  cheerful  though  not  excit 
ing  conversation ;  and,  by  the  same  token,  I 
may  remark  that  I  have  always  taken  a  deep 
interist  in  the  Catacombs.  Here  we  have  an 
unequalled  opporchunity  of  seeing  thim  in  their 
frish  virgin  condition.  These  interesting  sub 
jects  are  very  useful  to  keep  us  in  a  cool 
state  of  moind,  and  to  act  as  a  privintive 
against  unjue  excitemint. 

"  It's  ividint,"  he  continued,  "  that  these 
are  all  Christian  tombs,  for  on  most  of  thim 
ye  may  see  the  monogram  that  I  mintioned 
to  you.  Here,  for  instince,  is  one." 


He1  stopped  in  front  of  one  of  the  tombs, 
and  held  up  his  lamp.  Blake  stopped,  also, 
and  looked  at  it,  though  with  much  less  in 
terest  than  that  which  was  felt,  or  at  least 
affected,  by  his  companion.  There  were  four 
slabs  here,  one  above  another,  enclosing  four 
graves.  The  inscriptions  were  rudely  cut  in 
all  these.  Some  of  the  names,  which  were 
Greek,  were  spelled  with  Greek  letters. 

"  Many  of  these  tombs  are  ividently  occu 
pied,"  said  O'Rourke,  "  by  min  of  the  lower 
classes,  but  it  doesn't  follow  that  the  Chris 
tians  of  the  age  which  buried  these  bodies 
had  no  shuparior  min.  Of  course,  the  major 
ity  among  thim,  as  in  all  other  communities, 
was  ignorant,  and  the  majority  asserts  itself 
even  in  this  sublime  naycropolis.  Still,  that's 
a  fine  ipitaph,"  said  he,  pointing  to  the  one 
before  him.  "  It's  laconic,  and  yet  full  of 
profound  meaning.  Spartan  brivity  with 
Christian  pathos." 

The  epitaph  to  which  he  pointed  consisted 
but  of^a  few  words.  They  were  these : 

"Faustina,  cruciata,  dormit,  rcsurget" 

Another  bore  the  inscription  : 
" Dormitorium  Ccectii" 

Another : 

"Aselus  dormit  in  pace.     Vidalia  fecit." 

O'Rourke  walked  on  farther,  stopping  at 
times  in  front  of  those  tablets  which  bore 
longer  inscriptions  than  usual,  and  trans 
lating  them  for  the  benefit  of  his  companion, 
of  whose  classical  acquirements  and  intelli 
gent  appreciation  of  the  scene  around  him  he 
seemed  to  have  doubts,  which  were  probably 
well  founded. 

"  Here,"  said  he,  "  is  one  that  reminds  me 
of  that  one  of  Marius  behind  us,  that  I  forgot 
to  show  you : 

"  '  Lavinia,  of  wonderful  amiability,  who 
lived  eighteen  years  and  sixteen  days.  Lavinia 
sleeps  in  peace.  Her  father  and  mother  set  up 
this: 

"Here,  Blake,  is  a  long  one: 

"  '  Adscrlor,  our  son,  is  not  dead,  but  lives 
in  heaven.  An  innocent  boy,  you  have  already 
begun  to  live  among  the  innocent  ones.  How 
gladly  will  your  mother,  the  Church  of  God, 
receive  you  returning  from  this  world  !  Let  us 
restrain  our  tears  and  cease  from  lamentations^ 

"  Here,"  said  O'Rourke,  as  he  stopped  in 


THE   CITY   OF  THE  DEAD. 


105 


front  of  another,  "is  one  of  the  most  inter 
esting.  It  is  a  besomum.  D'ye  happen  t 
know  what  a  besomum  is  ?  Well,  it's  a  plac 
where  two  arc  buried — or  sleep  together,  a 
the  holy  Christians  called  it." 

A  few  steps  farther  on,  the  attention  of 
O'Eourke   was    arrested    by  an    inscription 
which  was  far  longer  than  any  which  had  ye 
met  his  eyes. 

"  See  here,"  said  he,  "  this  one  tells  a  long 
story."    And  then  he  read  it : 

"  '  Phocius  sleeps  here.  A  faithful  bishop 
He  ended  his  life  under  the  Emperor  Decius 
On  his  knees,  and  among  the  faithful,  he  was 
arrested  and  led  away  to  execution.  His  friends 
placed  him  here,  with  tears  and  in  fear.  Oh 
sad  times!  in  which  even  among  sacred  rites 
and  prayers,  not  even  in  caverns  and  among 
tombs  can  we  be  safe.  What  can  be  more 
wretched  than  such  a  life,  and  what  than  such 
a  death,  where  they  cannot  be  buried  by  their 
friends  and  relations  ?  He  has  scarcely  lived 
who  has  lived  in  Christian  times.'  " 

O'Eourke  stood  for  a  few  moments  mu 
sing. 

"It's  been  a  theme  of  frequint  medita 
tion  with  me,"  said  he,  "  the  wonderful  dif- 
ferince  between  these  Christians  and  their 
pagan  contimporaries  with  rifirince  to  their 
regyard  of  death.  Go  read  the  inscriptions 
on  the  pagan  tombs.  What  are  they  all  ? 
Terror  unspeakable,  mourning,  lamentation, 
and  woe.  Not  a  ray  of  hope.  'I  lift  up  my 
hands,'  says  one,  *  against  the  gods,  who  have 
snatched  away  me  innocent.'  But  what  do 
we  see  here  ?  Not  a  sad  longing  after  the 
vanished  plisures  of  life,  but  a  confident 
expectation  of  a  better  life  to  come." 

O'Eourke  here  gave  a  deep  sigh,  and  again 
resumed  his  walk.  This  time  he  paid  no  fur 
ther  attention  to  the  epitaphs.  It  seemed  to 
Blake  as  though  he  had  been  carried  away 
beyond  himself,  and  beyond  all  immediate 
recollection  of  his  errand  here,  by  the  solemn 
memorials  of  the  sainted  dead.  For  such 
feelings  as  these  Blake  felt  nothing  but  pro 
found  respect.  It  heightened  his  estimate  of 
O'Eourke's  character;  and,  though  the  con 
versation  was  one  in  which  he  had  not  felt 
able  to  take  part,  yeT;  it  had  produced  a 
marked  effect  upon  him.  »he  translations 
of  these  epitaphs  drove  away  the  wild  fever 
•f  excitement  which  had  so  long  clung  to 
him.  In  the  presence  of  these  solemn  memo 


rials  of  Christian  suffering  and  constancy  and 
faith,  his  longings  after  treasure  and  riches  ap 
peared  paltry  and  trivial,  and  there  was  com 
municated  to  his  mind  a  feeling  of  shame  at 
coming  on  such  an  errand  to  such  a  place. 
With  the  cessation  of  his  hot  excitement 
there  came,  also,  a  feeling  of  something  akin 
to  indifference  about  the  result  of  his  search, 
and  he  began  to  contemplate  a  possible  fail 
ure  with  equanimity. 

Already  as  they  advanced  they  had  come 
to  places  where  other  passage-ways  crossed 
their  path,  and  disclosed  depths  of  viewless 
gloom  on  either  side.  There  was  something 
appalling  in  the  suggestions  which  these  af 
forded  of  endless  labyrinths,  in  which  to  ven 
ture  for  even  a  few  paces  would  be  a  death 
of  horror.  They  served  to  remind  Blake  of 
the  terrible  fate  of  Onofrio,  and  gave  to  that 
slender  thread  which  O'Eourke  was  unwind 
ing  an  inconceivable  importance.  Upon  that 
slender  thread  now  hung  their  two  lives — that 
was  the  tie  that  bound  them  to  the  world  of 
the  living,  and  by  the  help  of  which  they 
could  alone  hope  to  retrace  their  steps  to  the 
upper  air. 

For  already  the  passage-way  had  wound 
about  in  various  directions,  and  they  had 
come  to  other  passages  which  led  into  this  at 
such  an  angle  that  it  would  be  only  too  easy 
to  choose  the  wrong  path  on  returning.  None 
of  these  passages  were  crooked,  but  the  diffi 
culty  lay  in  the  way  in  which  they  opened 
into  one  another,  and  in  the  confusion  which 
their  general  similarity  would  create  in  any 
mind. 

"I  think  I'm  going  right,"  said  O'Eourke; 
'but  that  last  passage-way  may  have  been 
,he  proper  course  for  us.  Howandiver,  we're 
)n  the  way  to  the  Painted  Chamber.  That's 
he  nixt  objictive  point  to  aim  at.  Once 
here,  the  opening  in  the  flure'll  be  a 
gyide." 

They  walked  on  for  some  distance  farther, 
.nd  then  O'Eourke  stopped  and  half  turned. 
Blake  came  up  and  found  that  the  passage- 
vay  here  had  been  enlarged.  There  was  a 

pecies  of  chamber — the  roof  was  vaulted 

he  sides  were  covered  with  a  thin  coating  of 
tucco,  upon  which  were  some  faded  pictures, 
oughly  drawn  and  rudely  colored.  At  once 
e  recognized  the  place  as  the  one  which  had 
een  mentioned  in  the  story  of  Aloysius. 

"  The  Painted  Chamber ! "  exclaimed 
Hake 


106- 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


O'Rourke  smiled. 

"  True  for  you,"  said  he.  "  And  so  we're 
right  thus  far.  It's  mighty  incouraging,  so  it 
is — and  I  must  say,  ye  see  yersilf,  how  much 
better  it  is  for  two  to  come  than  one.  I  con 
fess,  Blake,  me  boy,  there's  a  solimnity  about 
this  place  that  overawes  me ;  and,  if  I'd  been 
alone,  I'd  have — well,  I'd  not  have  come  so 
far  this  time.  I'd  have  returrened,  so  I  would. 
And  sure  and  this  is  a  great  place  intirely,  so 
it  is.  Sure,  and  the  paintings  are  on  the 
walls  yit,  as  any  one  may  discerrun,  just  as 
me  cousin  Malachi  said  they  were — and  what 
is  this  ?  "  he  continued,  going  up  to  the  wall 
and  holding  up  his  lantern.  "  Sure,  and  it's 
the  Noachian  diluge,  though  rudely  enough 
drawn — and  here,"  he  continued,  going  to  an 
other  place,  "  is  a  galley  with  a  sail.  I've 
seen  that  afore  in  the  Lapidarian  gallery, 
and  they  interpret  it  to  riprisint  the  immor 
tality  of  the  soul.  Here's  a  palm-branch — 
here's  another  ship,  and  a  fish — and  a  man — 
maybe  it's  Jonah  they  meant.  I  tell  you 
what  it  is,  Blake,  me  boy,  there's  a  power  of 
symbolical  meaning  in  all  this,  and  I'd  be 
proud  to  explain  it  all  to  ye  some  time ;  but 
just  now,  perhaps,  we'd  better  reshume  our 
wanderings." 

Upon  all  these,  which  O'Rourke  thus 
pointed  out,  Blake  looked  with  an  interest 
which  had  been  increased  by  the  scenes 
through  which  he  had  been  passing,  and  by 
the  solemn  thoughts  which  they  had  created 
within  his  mind.  Not  unwillingly  would  he 
have  delayed  a  little  to  listen  to  his  compan 
ion,  who  seemed  to  have  such  a  wonderful 
comprehension  of  the  meaning  of  these  draw 
ings,  so  rude  and  so  meaningless  to  his  inex 
perienced  eyes;  but  O'Rourke's  proposal  to 
go  on  drew  away  his  attention,  and  he  at  once 
acquiesced  without  a  word. 

"\Ve've  got  to  go  straight  on,"  said 
O'Hourke,  "  and  we  ought  to  come  to  the  hole 
before  long." 

The  chamber  was  circular,  and  about 
twelve  feet  in  diameter.  It  seemed  to  be  a 
simple  enlargement  of  the  intersection  of  two 
passages.  Once  enlarged,  it  had  been  deco 
rated  in  the  manner  already  noticed. 

O'Rourke  turned  away,  but  still  hesitated, 
in  that  manner  which  had  marked  his  prog 
ress  here  all  along.  There  was  evidently 
something  on  his  mind.  Blake  noticed  it, 
but  thought  that  it  was  simply  his  medita 
tions  upon  the  early  Christians. 


"  It's  a  small  place,  too,  for  such  a  pur 
pose,"  said  O'Rourke,  speaking  as  if  at  the 
conclusion  of  a  train  of  solemn  thought.  "  It 
couldn't  have  held  many.  It  must  have  been 
crowdid,  so  it  must." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Blake. 
"What  purpose?" 

"Well,  you  see,  Blake,  me  boy,"  said 
O'Rourke,  "  this  place  was  once  used  as  a 
Christian  chapel." 

"  A  chapel ! " 

"  Yis.  Juring  times  of  persecution,  the 
Christians  had  often  to  fly  to  these  recipta- 
cles,  and  hide  here.  In  these  chapels  they 
had  to  conduct  their  sacred  cirimonies.  Here, 
too,  they  had  their  burial-services.  Oh,  sure, 
if  these  walls  could  but  speak,  what  a  tale 
they  could  tell !  Mind  ye,  I  don't  hold  with 
some  that  there  iver  was  a  time  whin  the 
Christian  population  came  down  here  en  masse; 
I  hold  that  it  was  only  the  shuparior  clergy — 
the  bishops,  and  sich  like — or  the  imiuint 
min  that  hid  themselves  here.  But  they  held 
their  services  here,  no  doubt ;  and  on  Sun 
days  there  would  be  a  large  crowd  wandering 
about  here,  as  they  were  being  conducted  to 
these  chapels,  or  as  they  came  to  bury  the  re 
mains  of  some  frind.  But  what  puzzles  me 
is,  that  I  don't  see  any  remains  of  an  altar,  or 
any  thing  of  that  kind.  If  it  had  been  used 
as  a  chapel,  thereM  have  been  an  altar,  and, 
if  so,  there'd  have  been  some  remains,  unless 
they  afterward  removed  thim  to  some  church 
overhead.  And  that  may  have  been — but  the 
fact  is,  the  quistion  is  a  complicated  one,  and 
cannot  be  fairly  and  fully  discussed  on  an  oc 
casion  like  this." 

With  this,  O'Rourke  turned  abruptly 
away,  and,  unrolling  the  string,  he  walked  out 
of  the  chapel  through  that  passage-way 
which  was  a  continuation  of  the  path 
along  which  they  had  hitherto  been  advanc 
ing. 

He  walked  on,  unrolling  the  string  as  be 
fore,  holding  the  light  very  carefully  so  as  to 
see  his  way,  and  not  saying  a  word.  Blake 
followed  in  silence.  In  this  way  they  went 
on  for  about  fifty  paces. 

Then  O'Rourke  stopped,  and  looked  ear 
nestly  downward  at  the  pathway  before  him. 
Then  he  advanced  two  steps  farther.  Then 
he  turned  and  held  out  his  hand  with  a  warn 
ing  gesture. 

"  It's  the  hole  !  we've  come  to  it ! "  said 
he,  in  a  low  whisper. 


THE   CITY   OF  THE   DEAD. 


107 


"  Where  ?   where  ?  "  asked  Blake,  hurrj 
ing  up. 

"  There ! "  said  O'Rourke. 
As  he  said  this,  he  pointed  to  a  blacknes 
in  the  path  before  him.  Blake  looked,  an 
saw  an  opening  in  the  path,  yawning  imme 
diately  beneath  them.  An  involuntary  shud 
der  passed  through  him,  as  he  thought  of  th< 
danger  which  this  presented  to  the  incautiou 
explorer.  But  the  danger  here  was  not  real 
after  all ;  for  no  explorers  came  to  this  place 
except  themselves,  and  they  had  been  suffi 
ciently  cautious  to  avoid  it. 

"Me    cousin    Malachi    was    right,"  said 
O'Kourke.     "He  came  as   far  as   this.     I 
now  remains  to  see  whether  the  monk  Aloy 
sius  was  right  or  not.     If  so — thin — soon — 
we — shall — know — all." 

O'Rourke  spoke  slowly.  Blake  made  no 
answer.  He  had  reached  this  spot  about 
which  he  had  thought  with  intense  excite 
merit  of  late — this  spot  which  seemed  the  last 
stage  in  the  journey  to  endless  wealth ;  but 
now  his  imagination,  which  but  lately  had  so 
kindled  itself  at  this  thought,  lay  dull  and 
dormant  within  him.  Already  there  was  a 
load  on  his  mind,  a  dull  presentiment  of 
evil.  He  was  conscious  of  this  change.  He 
wondered  at  it.  He  attributed  it  to  various 
things — to  the  reaction  consequent  upon  over- 
excitement  long  continued  ;  to  the  sermoniz 
ing  of  O'Rourke,  who  had  discoursed  upon 
semi-sacred  things  ever  since  they  had  en 
tered  here;  to  the  presence  of  the  dead, 
whose  holy  lives,  and  glorious  deaths,  and 
immortal  hopes  beyond  the  grave,  seemed  to 
throw  such  contempt  upon  so  mean  a  quest 
as  this,  for  the  sake  of  which  he  had  violated 
their  last  resting-place.  But,  whichever  of 
these  was  the  cause,  there  he  stood,  not  in 
different,  but  strangely  melancholy,  and  dis- 
Surbed  in  soul  with  vague  alarms  and  dark 
forebodings. 

O'Rourke  stood  looking  down  in  silence 
into  the  yawning  abyss  beneath.  Then,  draw 
ing  a  long  breath,  he  put  his  lamp  down  on 
one  side  of  the  pathway,  and,  turning  to 
Blake,  he  took  the  ladder  from  him. 

This  ladder  he  then  proceeded  to  letdown. 
He  did  this  slowly  and  cautiously.  In  a  few 
minutes  it  touched  the  bottom,  and  the  top 
of  ^it  projected  about  one  inch.  The  ladder, 
being  ten  feet  long,  showed  thus  the  depth 
of  ^the  passage  beneath  from  the  place  in 
which  they  were  standing 


"My  calculation,"  said  O'Rourke,  "was 
based  upon  the  statemints  of  the  monk  Aloy- 
sius.  This  proves  that  the  statemints  were 
true.  Every  thing  in  that  manuscript  has 
thus  far  turrened  out  true,  and  I  only  hope 
the  rest  of  our  undertaking  will  be  equally 
successful.  So  now,  here  goes  !  " 

Saying  this,  O'Rourke  began  to  descend., 
Blake  watched  him  till  he  reached  the  bot. 
torn.  He  saw  that  the  passage  below  was,  ia 
all  respects,  the  counterpart  of  the  one  above. 
But  he  did  not  delay  to  look.  The  moment 
that  O'Rourke  had  reached  the  bottom,  ha 
began  to  descend,  and  in  a  few  moments  stood 
by  his  side. 

O'Rourke  now  went  on  very  cautiously, 
unwinding  the  string. 

"  Shall  I  take  the  ladder  ?  "  said  Blake. 
"  JSTo,"  said  O'Rourke ;  "if  Aloysius  is 
right,  there'll  be  no  need  for  the  ladder ;  and,: 
if  he's  wrong,  thin  our  game's  up — that's  all.. 
Besides,  I  don't  believe  there'd  be  any  ixca- 
vation  beneath  this.  We  must  now  be  on  a 
level  with  the  Tiber." 

Blake,  upon  this,  followed  his  companion, 
leaving  the  ladder  where  it  had  been  placed. 
They  walked  about  thirty  paces. 
Suddenly,  O'Rourke  stopped,  and  turned- 
round  with  a  blank  expression,  feeling  his; 
coat-pockets,  one  after  the  other. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Blake. 
"  Tare  an'  ages  !  "  exclaimed  O'Rourke, 
if  I  haven't  dropped  me  other  ball  of  twine, 
and  this  one  is  nearly  used  up !     I  wouldn't 
trust  meself  a  step  farther." 

"Why!  did  you  leave  it  behind  in  the 
cellar?" 

"  Sure  and  I  took  it  with  me,  so  I  did,  and 
—by  the  powers  !  I  have  it— I  moind  pulling 
out  me  handkerchief  in  the  chapel,  and  I 
moind  hearing  a  thud  on  the  flure.  I  must 
have  dropped  it.  I'll  go  straight  back  for  it, 
md  you  wait  here — unless  you're  afraid  of  the 
ghosts — you  wait  here,  and  I'll  be  back  in  a 
giffy,  so  I  will." 

Saying  this,  O'Rourke  brushed  past  Blake, 
>n  his  way  back  to  the  chapel  to  get  the  ball 
»f  twine. 

"  Ye  may  be  going  on,"  said  he  to  Blake, 
'till  ye  come  to  any  new  passage-way — it 
eems  like  a  straight  course— or  ye  may  wait 
or  me." 

"Oh,  I'll  wait  for    you!"    said   Blake. 
We'll  find  it,  or  miss  it  in  company." 
He  spoke  in  a  melancholy  voice.     He  had 


108 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


begun  to  feel  half  vexed  with  himself  for  his 
own  indifference ;  yet  he  was  indifferent.  Nor 
was  it  unaccountable.  Often  does  it  happen, 
in  the  lives  of  men,  that  an  object,  pursued 
with  absorbing  eagerness  from  sa  distance, 
grows  tame  at  a  closer  approach.  Thus  the 
lover's  ardor  is  sometimes  dispelled  on  the 
approacli  of  the  marriage-day ;  and  thus  Mont 
Blanc,  which  had  inspired  such  a  glow  of  en 
thusiasm  when  seen  from  the  Vale  of  Cha- 
mouni,  becomes  a  freezing  mass  of  ice,  kill 
ing  all  enthusiasm,  when  the  climber  ap 
proaches  its  summit. 

So,  in  profound  dejection,  Blake  stood 
still,  waiting  for  O'Rourke.  He  had  lost  his 
enthusiasm  ;  his  excitement  was  gone.  Ava 
rice,  ambition — even  these  feelings  ceased  to 
inspire  him. 

At  length,  it  struck  him  that  O'Rourke 
had  been  gone  for  a  long  time.  A  slight  fear 
arose.  It  was  instantly  quelled. 

He  determined  to  go  back  in  search  of 
him. 

He  walked  back  for  some  time. 

Suddenly,  he  stood  still. 

He  was  confounded. 

He  had  walked  back  a  distance  greater 
than  that  which  he  had  followed  O'Rourke 
after  descending  the  ladder,  yet  he  had  not 
come  to  the  ladder.  Only  twenty-five  paces 
or  so !  He  had  walked  fifty. 

Where  was  the  ladder  ? 

He  looked  along  the  arch  of  the  vaulted 
passage  overhead,  holding  up  his  lamp. 

He  walked  back  for  twenty-five  paces. 

Overhead  was  an  opening  in  the  vault, 
black,  impenetrable,  terrible !  Was  that  the 
place  through  which  he  had  descended  ? 

It  was ! 

Where  was  the  ladder  ? 
The  ladder  was  gone  I 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

BETRAYED. 

FOR  a  long  time  Blake  stood  staring  at 
that  black  opening  overhead.  Not  a  vestige 
of  any  thing  was  there.  The  string  had  gone, 
O'Rourke  had  taken  away  from  him  not  mere 
ly  the  means  of  return,  but  the  clew  which 
showed  the  way.  And  this  was  all  of  which 
he  was  conscious.  Even  of  this  he  was  only 
conscious  in  a  vague  way,  for  his  brain  was 


u  a  whirl,  and  his  whole  frame  tingled  at  the 
lorror  of  his  thoughts,  and,  in  the  immensity 
of  this  sudden  calamity,  he  stood  bewildered, 
ncapable  of  speech  or  motion  —  incapable 
even  of  thought.  Not  a  sound  came  to  his 
ears.  It  was  silence  all  around — the  silence 
of  death.  Yet  his  attitude  was  one  of  ex 
pectancy.  As  yet  he  could  not  believe  all,  or 
realize  the  full  extent  of  his  appalling  condi 
tion.  His  expectation  rested  on  O'Rourke, 
and  his  ears  tried  to  catch  the  sound  of  re 
turning  footsteps.  But  his  ears  listened  in 
vain,  and  the  time  passed,  and  horror  deep 
ened  in  his  soul,  till,  from  this  faint  hope  he 
descended  slowly  into  the  abyss  of  despair. 

One  thought  now  overspread  all  his  mind, 
and  this  was  that  O'Rourke  had  betrayed 
him,  and  had  lured  him  here  for  this  very 
purpose.  Why  he  had  done  this  he  did  not 
at  that  time  try  to  conjecture.  He  was  not 
yet  sufficiently  master  of  his  own  thoughts  to 
speculate  upon  this.  He  had  only  the  one 
supreme  and  overwhelming  idea  of  treachery 
— treachery  dark,  deep,  demoniacal,  far-reach 
ing — which  had  laid  this  trap  for  him,  and 
had  brought  him  to  it.  To  this  feeling  he 
yielded.  His  head  sank  down  from  that  up 
ward  stretch  into  which,  for  a  time,  it  had 
been  frozen  ;  the  rigidity  of  his  limbs,  wrought 
by  one  moment  of  unutterable  horror,  relaxed ; 
a  shudder  passed  through  him  ;  he  trembled 
like  a  palsied  man,  and  his  nerveless  hands 
could  scarcely  hold  the  lantern.  But  this 
light  now  shone  before  him  as  his  very  last 
hope — jf  there  was,  indeed,  any  such  thing 
as  hope  remaining  —  and  to  save  this  he 
clutched  it  with  a  convulsive  grasp.  Thia 
effort  roused  him  from  his  stupor;  and, 
though  his  bodily  strength  was  still  beyond 
his  recall,  yet  the  faculties  of  his  mind  were 
restored  and  rallied  at  the  impulse  of  the  in 
stinct  of  self-preservation.  Too  weak  to  stand 
erect  any  longer,  he  seated  himself,  still  clutch 
ing  his  lantern,  with  his  back  supported  against 
the  wall,  and  then,  in  his  despair,  began  to 
think  what  might  be  the  meaning  of  this. 

Had  O'Rourke  really  left  him  ?  Of  this 
he  had  no  doubt.  But  why  had  he  done 
this  ?  To  this  he  could  give  no  answer  what 
ever. 

Suddenly  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  began 
to  call  in  his  loudest  voice.  His  terrors,  after 
all,  might  be  unfounded,  and  O'Rourke  might, 
perhaps,  return.  At  least  he  might  answer 
and  tell  him  the  meaning  of  this.  With  this 


BETRAYED. 


109 


hope  he  called,  and,  for  some  time,  his  cries 
sounded  forth  as  he  uttered  every  form  of 
appeal,  of  entreaty,  of  reproach,  of  despair. 
His  voice  rang  mournfully  down  the  long  pas 
sages  ;  but  to  him,  as  he  listened,  there  came 
no  reply  except  the  dull,  distant  echoes  re 
turned  from  the  gloomy  recesses  of  the  Cata 
combs.    Whether  O'Rourke  heard  him  or  not 
he  could  not  tell.     Perhaps  he  had  hurried 
away  at  once,  so  as  to  be  out  of  the  hearing 
of  his  cries ;  perhaps  he  was  waiting  close 
by,  and  listening  coolly  to  the  despairing  en 
treaties  of  his  victim  ;  but,  whatever  he  h 
done  or  was  doing,  he  gave  no  sign.     Abov 
all  was  dark.   Blake  covered  up  his  own  lig 
as  he  looked  up,  to  see  if  there  was  any  glea 
from  O'Rourke's  lantern  visible  in  that  upp 
passage-way,  but  his  most  searching  scrutin 
failed   to   distinguish   the   slightest  possib 
glimmer  of  light  in  that  intense  gloom, 
was  the  blackness  of  darkness. 

Once  more  Blake  sank  down  into  the  d 
spair  of  his  own  thoughts.    With  this  despa 
there  was  mingled   unspeakable  wonder   a 
O'Rourke's  treachery.     The  motive  that  hac 
impelled  him  to  this  was  utterly  beyond  hi 
conception.     He  had  known  him  for  a  year 
He  had  made  his  acquaintance  in  the  mos 
casual  manner.     They  had  gradually  driftec 
into  one  another's  way.     What  had  he  eve 
done,  or  what  could  O'Rourke  have  imaginec 
him  to  have  done,  that  he  should  plan  for  him 
so  terrible  a  fate  as  this  ?      Or  what  possible 
purpose  of  any  possible  kind  could  O'Rourke 
have  before  himself  that  could  be  promoted 
by  such  a  crime  ? 

It  was  no  panic-flight  of  O'Rourke's.  It 
was  deliberate.  He  had  taken  the  ladder  so 
noiselessly  that  no  sound  had  indicated  what 
he  was  doing.  He  had  even  removed  the 
clew. 

It  was,  therefore  deliberate;  and  this 
treachery  joined  itself  to  all  that  had  gone 
before— formed  the  climax  to  it  all.  It  was 
now  evident  that  the  whole  story  of  the 
treasure  had  been  planned  for  the  purpose 
of  luring  him  to  this  place  and  to  this  fate. 
The  story  of  Aloysius  had  been,  no  doubt,  a 
fiction  of  O'Rourke's,  from  beginning  to  end. 
His  cousin  Mulachi  had  never  existed.  The 
Monastery  of  San  Antonio  probably  was  a 
fiction.  The  old  manuscript  was  another. 
^Rourke  had  never  produced  it.  He  had 
told  an  exciting  story,  and  worked  upon  his 
credulity,  his  necessities,  his  ambition,  and 
q 


his  avarice.  As  to  the  treasure,  it  was  the 
wildest  of  dreams.  If  there  had  been  any 
he  would  not  have  been  betrayed  to  this  fate! 
Such  was  the  sudden  awakening  of  Basil 
Blake  from  his  dreams  of  boundless  wealth. 

But  there  remained  the  dark  and  inex 
plicable  problem  of  the  motives  of  O'Rourke. 
Could  it  be  that  he  was  mad  ? 
This  would  account  for  it  all.     O'Rourke 
was    certainly   eccentric.      His    eccentricity 
might  be  madness.     He  might  have  been  one 
of  those  homicidal  madmen  who  plan  craftily 
the  deaths  of  others  ;  and  his  very  acquaint- 
ance  with  him  might  have  been  sufficient  to 
suggest  to  O'Rourke  a  plan  for  his  destruc 
tion.    He  recalled  his  strange  demeanor  since 
their  arrival  at  Rome ;  his  singular  silence  in 
the  cellar;  his  unwonted  talkativeness  on  the 
way  through  the  passages  ;  his  odd  gestures, 
mysterious  looks,  and  significant  words.  Were 
not  all  these  the  signs  of  a  disordered  brain  ? 
On  the  other  hand,  if  he  were  not  mnd, 
what  possible  motive  could  he  have  for  his 
treachery  ?      Blake  could  think  of  nothing 
whatever  in  his  life  that  could  account  for 
any  hostile  plot  against  him.     All  his  life  had 
been  commonplace,  and  his  position  was  suf 
ficiently   obscure  to  guirrd  him  against  the 
machinations  of  enemies.     One  thing  only  in 
all  that  life  of  his  stood  forth  as  beyond  the 
obscure  and  the  commonplace.      That   was 
.he  mysterious  friendship  of  Mr.  Wyverne, 
iis  mother's  singular  words,  and,  above  all,' 
he  strange  and  incredible  declarations  of  the 
dying  man.     But  that  had  already  been  de- 
larod  false  by  another  authority.     Even  if  it 
hould  be  true,  could  there  be  any  thing  in 
hat  which  could  connect  itself  in  any  way 
with  O'Rourke's  plot,  and  be  a  reasonable 
ause  for  such  a  terrible  betrayal  as  this  ? 
low  should  O'Rourke  know  Wyverne  ?   How 
ould  he  be  benefited  ?     Or  were  there  others 

who  wished  to  get  him  out  of  the  way by 

uch  a  mode  of  destruction  as  would  render 
impossible  that  he  could  ever  again   be 
leard   of?      Alas!    if  there   were  any  who 
lad  sent  O'Rourke  to  do  this,  they  had  cer- 
tinly  chosen  their  agent  well.     Blake  now 
membered  how  completely  he  had  concealed 
s  movements  ;  and  he  recalled  those  letters 
hich  he  had  written  to  Kane  Hellmuth  and 
iis  mother,  in  which  not  the  slightest  indica- 
ion  was  given  of  the  place  to  which  he  was 
)ound,  or  the  purpose  for  which  he  was  go- 
g.      He  was  now  alone — no  friend   could 


110 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


help— no  one  could  ever  track  him  here  ;  and 
here  he  must  die,  and  exhibit  the  fullest  real 
ity  of  .aat  dread  fate  which  O'Rourke  had  as 
cribed  to  her  imaginary  Onofrio. 

But  now  another  change  came  over  Blake 
—a  reaction  from  this  despair— a  recoil  from 
that  paralysis  of  all  his  energies  which  had 
come  upon  him.  He  started  to  his  feet. 
There  was  yet  time.  Could  he  not  retrace  his 
steps  ?  How  much  time  had  already  passed 
he  did  not  know,  but,  if  he  could  find  his  way 
back  along  the  passages  to  that  opening  in 
the  wall,  he  might  yet  save  himself. 

This  thought  at  once  restored  all  his 
strength  of  body  and  vigor  of  mind  to  the  ut 
most.  He  started  to  his-  feet,  and  once  more 
looked  upward,  scanning  eagerly  that  opening 
above  him.  The  distance  was  not  great.  Was 
it  impossible  for  him  to  climb  up  there  and 
regain  that  passage-way  ?  True,  there  was 
nothing  but  the  smooth  wall,  which  presented 
no  foolhold  just  here,  except  the  slabs  that 
covered  over  the  graves.  He  could  not  jump 
up,  he  was  not  sufficiently  agile  for  that.  How, 
then,  could  he  contrive  to  scale  that  bare  wall 
of  ten  feet  between  himself  and  the  floor 
above  ? 

The  wall  itself  afforded  a  ready  answer  to 
this.  On  that  wall  there  were  three  slabs, 
covering  three  tombs,  one  above  the  other,  in 
the  mode  which  has  already  been  mentioned 
so  frequently.  If  those  slabs  could  but  be 
removed,  or  if  only  one  of  them  could  be  dis 
placed,  then  Blake  would  have  a  foothold  by 
which  he  could  reach  the  upper  passage-way. 
These  slabs  he  now  examined  most  carefully. 
He  struck  them  with  his  hands ;  he  tried  to 
find  some  crevice  by  which  he  could  get  a 
sufficient  hold  of  them  to  pull  them  from  their 
places.  But  these  efforts  were  vain;  for, 
though  ages  had  passed  away  since  they  were 
placed  here,  still  the  cement  was  firm,  and 
none  of  the  slabs  would  yield. 

But  Blake  would  not  yet  give  up.  Every 
thing  now  seemed  to  depend  upon  the  prompt 
ness  with  which  he  worked.  He  drew  his 
knife,  and,  opening  the  large  blade,  began  to 
cut  at  the  stone  over  the  slab.  His  intention 
was  to  try  to  cut  away  the  stone  to  such  an 
extent  that  he  could  pass  his  fingers  through 
and  grasp  the  slab.  He  began  with  the  mid 
dle  slab.  The  rock  was  soft  sandstone ;  and 
as  he  cut  and  dug  with  his  knife  he  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  that  he  was  gradu 
ally  working  it  away,  so  that  he  had  the 


prospect  in  time  of  making  a  hole  large 
enough  for  his  purposes.  But  his  work  was 
slow,  and  he  discovered  very  soon  that  his 
knife  was  wearing  away  rapidly  under  it. 
At  length,  when  his  hand  ached  with  the  ef 
fort,  and  was  bleeding  from  blisters,  when  so 
much  of  his  knife  was  worn  away  that  the 
prospect  of  continuing  much  longer  at  this 
task  was  faint  indeed,  he  discovered  that  the 
thickness  of  this  particular  slab  was^  too 
great  to  give  any  prospect  of  removing,  it  in 
this  way. 

Yet  the  moment  that  he  made  this  dis 
covery,  he  made  also  another,  which  counter 
balanced  the  first,  and  changed  despair  once 
more  into  hope. 

The  hole  that  he  had  made,  though  not 
large  enough  to  enable  him  to  remove  the 
slab,  was  still  large  enough  to  assist  him  to 
scale  the  wall.  All  that  he  needed  was  a  few 
others  like  it.  Two  more  would  suffice.  If 
he  could  cut  one  over  each  slab,  even  smaller 
than  this,  he  could  then  climb  up. 

Instantly  he  set  to  work  once  more,  this 
time  at  the  lower  slab,  and  here  at  length  he 
succeeded  in  cutting  a  small  slit  large  enough 
for  him  to  insert  the  toe  of  his  boot.  It  was 
not  so  large  as  the  first  hole  that  he  had  cut, 
but  suited  his  purpose  quite  as  well. 

He  then  turned  his  attention  to  the  upper 
most  slab.  The  others  were  flush  with  the 
wall.  This  one,  however,  projected  in  one 
corner  about  half  an  inch.  No  cutting  was 
therefore  required,  for  he  could  grasp  this 
with  his  fingers  so  as  to  draw  himself  up  to 
some  extent. 

He  now  prepared  to  ascend.  But  first 
it  was  necessary  to  secure  the  safety  of  his 
lantern.  In  order  to  effect  this,  he  tore  up 
his  pocket-handkerchief  and  his  cravat  into 
thin  strips,  and  tied  them  all  together  until 
at  length  he  had  a  line  fifteen  feet  long  at 
least.  °  One  end  of  this  he  fastened  to  the  lan 
tern,*  the  other  he  tied  to  his  knife.  Then  he 
flung  his  knife  up  through  the  opening.  It 
fell  on  the  floor  there,  and  thus  held  the  line 
that  was  fastened  to  the  lantern  below. 

Blake  now  braced  himself  for  this  great 
effort  to  climb  the  wall.  Grasping  the  upper 
slab  he  put  his  right  foot  in  the  lower  hole, 
and  drew  himself  up  thus  till  he  was  able  to 
thrust  his  left  foot  into  the  larger  hole  that 
he  had  scraped  away  over  the  middle,  slab. 
Here  there  was  a  firmer  foothold,  and  here, 
with  one  vigorous  effort,  he  raised  himself  up 


BETRAYED. 


Ill 


higher,  clinging  to  the  upper  slab  with  hi 
right  hand,  and  grasping  with  his  left  at  th 
upper  floor.  He  reached  it,  and,  assisted  b 
his  firm  foothold,  raised  himself  up  higher 
Then,  with  a  final  spring,  he  threw  himself 
up,  and,  catching  his  toe  on  the  upper  slab 
lie  succeeded  in  working  himself  through  th 
opening  and  on  to  the  floor  of  the  upper  pas 
sage-way.  Then  he  drew  up  the  lamp,  and 
put  the  line  in  his  pocket,  so  as  to  use  it  in 
case  of  any  further  need. 

Once  more,  then,  Blake  found  himself  in 
this  upper  passage,  and  now  he  proceeded  to 
hurry  back  the  way  he  had  come.  In  a  short 
time  he  reached  the  Painted  Chamber.  Here, 
«ven  if  he  had  felt  any  lingering  doubts  as  to 
O'Rourke's  treachery,  the  first  sight  would 
Lave  served  to  dispel  them,  and  confirm  his 
worst  suspicions  ;  for  the  chamber  was  emp 
ty,  and  O'Rourke  had  taken  his  ladder  and 
his  string. 

But  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  Haste 
was  needed,  and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  the 
utmost  caution  was  equally  needed  ;  for  how 
could  he  find  his  way  back  ?  True,  the  path 
way  had  not  been  very  crooked,  and  there 
fore,  if  he  were  to  keep  in  the  straightest 
possible  course,  he  would  be  most  certain  to 
find  the  true  way  ;  yet  still  there  were  places 
where,  among  several  passages  branching  off 
in  the  same  way,  it  wouLI  be  difficult  to  tell 
the  true  one.  But,  until  that  place  was 
reached,  he  might  hurry  on  with  less  circum 
spection. 

Accordingly,  he  advanced  as  fast  as  a  vigi 
lant  outlook  would  allow  him,  and  for  some 
time  had  no  difficulty.  At  length,  to  his  in 
tense  joy,  he  discovered  something  on  the 
floor.  On  stooping  to  examine  it,  he  found 
that  it  was  the  clew.  O'Rourke  had  appar 
ently  gone  back,  winding  it  up  as  he  went ; 
but  at  length,  becoming  perhaps  weary  of 
this,  and  feeling  certain  of  the  destruction  of 
his  victim,  he  had  contemptuously  thrown  it 
down. 

Blake  now  hurried  on  faster  than  ever, 
with  nothing  to  prevent  the  most  rapid  pro"- 
ress,  since  he  was  guided  by  the  string  that 
ran  along  the  path.  Before  long,  he  came  to 
the  ladder,  which  lay  obliquely  across  the 
path,  as  if  carelessly  flung  down  by  one  who 
was  weary  of  carrying  it,  and  had  no  further 
need  of  it.  This  ladder  was  of  no  use,  how 
ever,  to  Blake,  though  a  short  time  before  all 

life  seemed  to  depend  upon  it;  so  he  hur 


ried  on,  seeing  in  it  only  a  sign  that  he  might 
yet  reach  the  house  before  O'Rourke  had  left. 
On  he  went,  faster  and  faster.  At  length, 
the  clew  ended.  Blake  recognized  this  place! 
It  was  at  that  first  crossing  to  which  they  had 
come,  and  beyond  this  he  knew  that  there 
were  no  other  crossings  till  he  reached  the 
aperture  by  which  he  had  entered.  To  arrive 
at  this  point,  at  last,  was  almost  like  an  es 
cape  ;  but  still  his  escape  was  not  yet  effect 
ed,  and  so  he  hurried  onward.  The  aperture 
for  which  he  was  now  looking  was  on  his  left, 
and,  as  he  went,  he  watched  that  side  nar' 
rowly. 

At  last  he  saw  it. 

All  the  other  slabs  were  in  their  places, 
but  this  one  was  off.  It  lay  on  the  ground 
below.  The  aperture  was  all  dark.  Blake 
sprung  toward  it,  and  thrust  in  his  lamp  and 
his  head. 

The  next  moment  he  stood  there,  rooted 
:o  the  spot,  staring  with  wild  eyes  at  the  sight 
before  him,  while  a  new  despair  deprived  him 
of  strength  and  almost  of  consciousness. 

For  there,  full  before  him,  in  the  place 
where  that  opening  had  been  through  which 
he  had  crawled  after  O'Rourke,  was  now  a 
vail   of   stone,   presenting   a   barrier   which 
topped  all  escape.     There  were   two   large 
tones.     They  had  been  pushed  up  here  fro°u 
within— by  the  malignant  and  relentless  pur- 
)ose  of  his  enemy— not  fastened  with  cement, 
ut  lying  there  solid,  irremovable,  and  be- 
ond  the  reach  of  any  efforts  of  his. 

At  this  sight  he  reached  the  last  extremity 
f  his  prostration  and  of  his  despair.     The 
imp  fell  from  his  hands  into  the  stony  sepul 
chre,  and  he  burst  into  a  torrent  of  tearsc 

And  now,  at  this  moment,  while  his  lamp 
lay  extinguished,  and  all  around  there  was  a 
darkness  utter  and  impenetrable — a  dark 
ness,  also,  fully  commensurate  with  the  dark 
ness  of  his  despair — there  came  to  his  ears 
a  dull  sound  from  beyond  that  wall,  as  if 
some  one  was  moving  there. 

At  once  Blake  roused  himself,  and  lis» 
tcned. 

The  sounds  continued.  Some  one  was 
moving.  There  was  the  rattling,  shuffling 
sound  as  of  some  one  piling  up  stones.  It 
was  as  though  O'Rourke  had  not  been  satis 
fied  with  any  common  barrier  to  Blake's  es 
cape,  but  had  resolved  to  replace  the  whole 
wall  in  all  its  thickness,  and  leave  it  as  he 
had  found  it.  There,  then,  was  his  enemy, 


112 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


within  a  few  feet,  yet  inaccessible  and  invis 
ible — not  remorseful  for  what  he  had  done, 
but  actively  malignant  still,  and  still  toiling 
to  accomplish,  in  its  fullest  perfection,  the 
terrible  task  which  he  had  undertaken. 

Blake  listened  in  dumb  horror,  unable  to 
speak  a  word,  even  if  words  had  been  of  any 
avail.  But  no  words  were  forthcoming,  and 
he  leaned  there  in  that  thick  darkness,  cling 
ing  to  the  sepulchre  with  a  convulsive  grasp, 
and  all  his  soul  centred  in  his  sense  of  hear 
ing.  That  sense  seemed  now  to  have  taken 
an  almost  superhuman  power  and  acuteness, 
as  though  all  his  other  senses  had  lent  their 
aid  to  this.  The  rattle,  the  sliding,  the  dull 
thud,  the  harsh  grating  of  the  stones  as  they 
were  handled  by  the  terrible  workman  on  the 
other  side,  still  went  on ;  and  still  the  sounds 
penetrated  the  wall,  and  came  to  the  silent 
place  of  the  dead  beyond. 

Blake  listened,  unconscious  of  time,  and 
only  conscious  of  the  slow  approach  of  his 
appalling  doom. 

At  last  all  ceased. 

Then  there  came  the  sound  of  a  human 
voice — low,  muffled,  sepulchral,  but,  to  Blake's 
acute  hearing,  sounding  with  terrific  distinct 
ness.  There  were  but  four  words  that  thus 
came  to  his  ears  through  the  thick  wall 
where  the  stones  stood,  piled  up  without 
plaster,  and  allowing  the  awful  words  to  pass 
through  r 

"  Blake  Wyvernc,  farewell  forever  !  " 

Then  all  was  still. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

FILIAL   AFFECTION. 

THE  time  passed  pleasantly  indeed  with 
Bernal  Mordaunt.  The  worn-out  man  felt 
this  rest  to  be  sweet  after  his  weary  life ;  and 
it  was  sweeter  still,  after  so  many  years  of 
loneliness  and  exile  and  wandering,  to  find 
around  him  once  more  the  tender  embrace  of 
kindred  and  of  affection.  In  his  far-dist;mt 
home,  as  missionary,  the  Abbe  Mordaunt  had 
not  been  without  those  lofty  consolations 
which  the  active  performance  of  a  high  duty, 
and  zealous  labor  for  the  good  of  man,  and 
fervent  faith,  can  give  to  the  soul,  even  when 
all  earthly  joys  have  been  torn  from  its  grasp ; 
but  such  labors  and  such  zeal  were  only  pos 
sible  in  the  days  of  his  vigorous  manhood. 


Now,  when  vigor  had  gone,  and  such  apostolic 
labors  were  no  longer  possible,  his  heart 
yearned  for  some  close  human  tie,  and  some 
tender  human  aifection.  For  this  cause  he 
had  thought  of  his  daughters,  and  had  come 
home  to  find  them.  One  was  gone,  but  one 
was  left;  and  that  heart  of  his,  which  had 
so  long  been  destitute  of  the  treasures  of 
human  love,  now  expanded,  and  filled  itself 
with  that  tender  affection  which  was  lav 
ished  by  her  whom  he  called  "  his  own,"  "  his 
only  one,"  "  his  darling  daughter,"  "  his  most 
precious  Inez." 

In  spite  of  all  his  deep  yearning  for  this 
filial  love,  Bernal  Mordaunt  was  not  exacting; 
and  it  has  been  seen  how  carefully  he  tried  to 
avoid  standing  between  Bessie  and  one  whom 
he  supposed  to  be  the  object  of  tenderer  and 
stronger  affections  than  any  which  she  could 
bestow  upon  himself.  It  has  been  seen  also 
how  Bessie  frustrated  his  self-denying  plans, 
and  met  this  sacrifice  of  love,  by  another  sac 
rifice  of  love  on  her  part,  and  refused  to  ac 
cord  to  Sir  Gwyn  any  privileges  which  might 
draw  her  away  from  Bernal  Mordaunt.  This 
Bernal  Mordaunt  felt  more  than  any  thing 
that  had  occurred  since  his  return  home.  He 
believed  that  it  must  be  a  sacrifice  on  her 
part ;  yet  in  his  secret  soul  he  exulted  over 
such  a  sacrifice,  since  it  had  been  made  for 
his  sake.  He  deprecated  it  as  grtatly  as  he 
could  to  her,  but  Bessie  met  such  deprecatory 
language  in  a  way  of  her  own  which  was  thor 
oughly  characteristic,  by  the  profession  of 
still  greater  love,  and  by  the  declaration  that 
she  would  give  herself  up  altogether  to  him, 
and  for  his  sake  cut  herself  off  from  all  soci 
ety.  This,  however,  Bernal  Mordaunt  did  not 
wish  her  to  do.  In  his  love  for  her,  he  re 
garded  not  only  her  present  but  her  future, 
and  he  was  not  selfish  enough  to  permit  his 
own  happiness  to  stand  in  the  way  of  what  he 
considered  her  permanent  good.  The  regard 
which  he  had  from  the  first  conceived  for 
Sir  Gwyn  Ruthven  had  steadily  increased 
with  the  progress  of  their  acquaintance ;  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  Sir  Gwyn  was  in  every 
respect  a  man  to  whom  he  might  gladly  in 
trust  the  daughter  whom  he  loved  so  fondly, 
and  for  whose  future  welfare  he  was  so  soli 
citous. 

Meanwhile,  Sir  Gwyn,  though  full  of  a  sin 
cere  and  devoted  regard  for  Bernal  Mordaunt, 
had  not  by  any  means  lost  sight  of  the  great 
aim  of  his  present  life.  Bessie,  in  her  new 


FILIAL   AFFECTION. 


113 


r6h  of  affectionate  daughter,  appeared  to  him 
to  be  more  charming  than  ever.     It  needed 
but  this  to  complete  her  charms  in  his  eyes, 
and  to  transform  her  into  an  angel.     What 
was  best,  the  cordiality  and  evident  regard 
which  Bernal  Mordaunt  always  exhibited  tow- 
ard  himself  had  placed  him  upon  a  footing  of 
familiar  and  intimate  friendship,  and  thus  en 
abled  him  to  see  to  the  best  advantage  the 
tender,  the  incessant,  the  self-denying  care 
of  Bessie  for  the  old  man.     Still,  in  spite  of 
this  surrender  of  herself,  Bessie  was  not  sep 
arated  from  him ;  in  fact,  she  appeared  to  be 
drawn  nearer  to  him,  and  never  had  Sir  Gwyn 
more  profoundly  enjoyed    himself.      Bernal 
Mordaunt  himself  w;is  willing  to  favor   the 
lovers  in  every  possible  way ;  and  often,  when 
Bessie  would  not  leave  him,  he  pretended  to 
be  asleep,  so  as. to  leave  an  open  field  to  Sir 
Gwyn.     At  other  times  he  would  occupy  him 
self  with  reading,  and  watch  those  two  who 
were  both  so  dear  to  him,  with  a  quiet  smile, 
which  showed  with  what  tender  human  sym 
pathy  he  noticed  the  progress  of  affairs. 

Bessie  showed  herself  in  all  respects  a 
daughter  beyond  all  praise.  She  walked  with 
.the  old  man,  making  him  lean  on  her  slender 
arm ;  she  read  to  him  all  the  daily  papers ; 
she  assisted  in  finding  out  what  books  he  pre 
ferred  ;  and  used  to  sit  at  his  feet  on  a  low 
stool  reading  to  him  for  hours,  while  he  rest 
ed  his  hand  on  her  golden  hair,  and  watched 
her  with  a  look  of  unspeakable  love.  She 
was  quick  to  discover  that  he  liked  her  con 
versation,  and  was  amused  with  her  little  Hi- 
bernicisms,  and  occasional  outcropping  of  the 
brogue  which  distinguished  it;  and  so  she 
took  pains  every  day  to  have  some  amusing 
story  to  tell  him,  and  to  tell  it  too  in  her 
oddest  manner,  with  her  oddest  idioms,  well 
satisfied  if  she  could  succeed  in  raising  a  laugh 
at  the  point  of  this  story,  which  she  took  good 
care  to  introduce  always  in  the  most  effective 
way.  When  local  events  failed,  she  would 
fall  back  upon  her  early  reminiscences,  and 
these  were  invariably  of  so  grotesque  a  kind 
that  Bernal  Mordaunt  relished  them  more 
than  any  thing  else. 

Bernal  Mordaunt  thus  was  happy — more 
truly  and  calmly  happy  than  he  had  been  for 
years.  It  was  not,  indeed,  so  elevated  a  sen 
timent  as  some  which  he  had  known  during 
his  active  missionary  life ;  not  that  high  spir 
itual  rapture  which  had  sometimes  visited  his 
soul ;  yet  it  was  true  happiness,  tender  and 


human  and  domestic,  a  feeling  well  deserved, 
and  well  befitting  the  man  whom  years  and 
hard  labor  and  sorrow  had  enfeebled.  For, 
in  spite  of  the  calm  and  quiet  life  into  which 
he  had  passed ;  in  spite  of  the  pure  and  invig 
orating  air;  in  spite  of  his  own  peace  of  mind 
and  happiness ;  in  spite  even  of  the  incessant 
and  vigilant  and  most  tender  care  of  the  de 
voted  Bessie,  Bernal  Mordaunt's  health  did 
not  improve,  but,  on  the  contrary,  strange  as 
it  mny  appear,  from  the  moment  that  he  came 
to  Mordaunt  Manor,  his  health  and  strength 
gradually  yet  steadily  failed.  There  was  no 
visible  cause  for  this.  Every  thing  around 
him  seemed  adapted  to  build  up  a  weakened 
constitution,  and  give  tone  and  vigor  to  an 
enfeebled  frame,  yet  still  there  was  the  mys 
terious  fact,  and  Bernal  Mordaunt  himself 
knew  it  and  felt  it,  accepting  it,  however,  with 
solemn  and  placid  resignation  as  the  inevi 
table  will  of  Heaven. 

One  morning,  as  he  and  Bessie  were  to 
gether,  Sir  Gwyn  found  them,  and  after  a 
short  time  Bessie  meekly  withdrew.  Ber 
nal  Mordaunt  was  struck  by  this  occurrence, 
which  was  quite  singular,  for  Bessie  had  al 
ways  chosen  to  remain  on  former  occasions  ; 
but  at  length  it  was  explained,  for  Sir  Gwyn, 
with  all  the  embarrassment  which  is  usual  in 
such  cases,  proceeded  to  inform  him  that  he 
had  come  to  ask  his  daughter's  hand. 

The  reception  of  this  request  was  all  that 
Sir  Gwyn  could  have  desired.  Bernal  Mor 
daunt  pressed  the  young  man's  hand,  and 
looked  at  him  earnestly,  with  moistened  eyes. 
"  My  dear  Gwyn,"  said  he,  addressing  him 
in  the  familiar  style  which  the  young  man  had 
himself  requested  that  he  would  use — "  my 
dear  Gwyn,  the  object  cf  my  dearest  regard 
on  earth  is  my  sweet  daughter  Inez,  and  her 
future  happiness.  You  know  how  dear  she 
is  to  me,  and  hoAV  I  live  in  her  presence.  You 
know,  too,  what  a  heart  of  love  she  has — how 
tender  she  is,  how  true,  how  devoted,  how 
forgetful  of  self.  I  never  cease  to  thank 
Heaven  for  the  mercy  bestowed  upon  one  so 
undeserving  as  I  am,  in  the  gift  of  an  angel 
upon  earth,  to  be  my  daughter,  to  love  me,  to 
tend  me,  to  devote  herself  to  me,  as  she  does. 
But  still  I  am  not  forgetful  of  the  future,  my 
boy  ;  and  I  know  that  the  best  thing  for  her 
to  win  is  the  heart  of  a  brave,  loyal  gentle 
man,  who  may  be  her  protector  through  life. 
[  have  seen  all  this  in  you,  Gwyn,  my  dear 
boy,  and  I  am  happy  in  the  thought  that  you 


114 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


love  her;  and,  if  you  can  win  her  lore,  you 
have,  not  only  my  consent,  but  my  grateful 
and  earnest  good  wishes.  You  have  my  con 
sent,  Gwyn,  and  more — you  have  my  most 
affectionate  sympathies ;  for  it  will  give  me 
sincere  happiness  to  receive  you  as  my  son." 

Gwyn  was  quite  overcome  at  such  a  re 
ception  of  his  request,  and  murmured  some 
words  of  acknowledgment.  There  was  evi 
dently  something  on  his  mind,  however  ;  and 
this,  after  some  further  conversation,  all  came 
out. 

"  I  had  to  ask  this  first,"  said  he  ;  "  but 
I've  got  something  else  that  I'm  anxious  to 
tell  you,  before  this  goes  any  further.  It's 
something  that  you  ought  to  know,  and  I 
ought  to  tell.  It's  about  my  own  affairs." 

Bernal  Mordaunt  at  this  looked  at  him 
•with  a  pleasant  smile  of  encouragement. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Gwyn,  "  there's  some 
difficulty  in  my  present  position,  some  uncer 
tainty  as  to  my  right,  not  only  to  my  title, 
but  also  to  my  estate.  I  will  explain.  I  am 
the  youngest  of  three  brothers.  My  eldest 
brother  died  a  few  years  ago,  leaving  no  heirs. 
Now,  between  me  and  him  there  was  a  second 
brother ;  and  it  is  this  one  that  makes  my 
present  position  uncertain.  About  ten  years 
ago,  he  vanished.  He  lived  in  Paris  when  he 
was  last  heard  from.  He  had  been  very  dis 
sipated.  As  the  second  son,  he  had  no  pros 
pects  ;  and  the  wild  life  which  he  had  lived 
had  already  exhausted  what  my  father  had 
allowed  him.  There  was  some  talk  of  a  hnsty 
marriage  that  he  had  made  with  some  grisette 
or  some  unworthy  creature.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  he  vanished,  and  has  never  been  heard 
of  since. 

"  Well,  yon  know,  my  elder  brother  died, 
as  I  have  said  ;  and,  as  my  second  brother 
was  not  to  be  found,  I  came  in  for  the  inheri 
tance.  As  to  my  second  brother,  I  have  heard 
various  rumors.  Some  say  that  he  committed 
suicide ;  others,  that  he  died  in  extreme  pov 
erty  in  Genoa ;  others,  that  he  went  to  India, 
and  died  there.  But,  among  all  these  rumors, 
no  proof  has  ever  been  brought  forward  that 
he  is  dend.  He  may  be  living  yet,  and  the 
only  actual  proof  that  I  can  adduce  in  favor 
of  his  death  is  the  improbability  of  any  man 
in  needy  circumstances  allowing  a  great  in 
heritance  to  pass  into  other  hands,  when  he 
has  only  to  come  forward  to  claim  it.  At  the 
game  time,  I  know  this,  that  he  was  always 
different  from  other  men;  and,  if  he  had 


chanced  to  be  engaged  in  some  mode  of  life 
that  suited  his  tastes  for  the  time,  he  would 
let  the  inheritance  pass,  and  not  come  forward 
till  it  suited  him  to  do  so.  As  to  my  elder 
brother's  death,  he  must  have  heard  of  that, 
for  it  was  mentioned  in  all  the  papers  at  the 
time,  and,  what  is  more,  notices  of  it  were  in 
serted  in  the  leading  journals  on  the  Conti 
nent  and  in  America.  So,  you  see,  as  it  i3 
possible  that  he  may  be  alive,  it  is  also  pos 
sible  that  I  may  not  be  the  rightful  owner  of 
the  Ruthven  estates ;  and,  if  he  should  ever 
appear,  I  should  have  to  give  them  all  up  to 
him.  The  probability  of  his  appearance  is 
certainly  somewhat  remote,  but  still  I  thought 
it  my  duty  to  explain  this  matter." 

To  all  this  Bernal  Mordaunt  listened  with 
a  pleasant  smile. 

**  My  dear  boy,"  said  he,  as  Gwyn  finished, 
"  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  your  frankness  and 
for  your  confidence.  At  the  same  time,  all 
this  makes  not  the  slightest  difference  in  my 
feelings.  When  I  accepted  the  proposal  which 
you  made,  it  was  not  the  baronet  that  I  re 
garded,  or  the  heir  of  the  Ruthven  estates, 
but  the  young  man  Gwyn  Ruthven,  whom  I 
consider  as  a  noble-hearted  and  loyal  gentle 
man,  and  whom  I  esteem,  not  for  what  he  has, 
but  for  what  he  is.  I  assure  you  that  it  makes 
no  difference  to  me  whether  you  are  rich  or 
poor.  The  life  that  I  have  lived,  and  the 
principles  that  have  animated  me,  have  all 
caused  me  to  regard  riches  as  of  less  im 
portance  than  the  world  supposes.  Inez  has 
Mordaunt  Manor;  and,  if  you  should  be 
stripped  of  every  thing,  this  would  remain, 
and  this  woiild  be  enough.  So  do  not  let  any 
considerations  of  this  sort  interfere  with  your 
hopes  and  plans.  If  you  love  her,  go  and 
try  to  win  her.  If  she  accepts  you,  I  give 
you  my  blessing.  But,,  as  for  this  missing 
brother  of  whom  you  speak,  of  course  you 
have  duties  there,  which  I  am  sure  you  have 
already  tried  to  fulfil." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Gwyn,  earnestly; 
"  I  have  tried  to  find  him.  I  h:ive  sent  out 
notices,  and  have  even  communicated  with 
the  police  in  Paris,  in  Vienna,  in  New  York, 
and  in  several  other  places.  If  he  is  alive, 
the  place  is  his,  and  I  am  ready  to  give  it 
up." 

"My  boy,"  said  Bernal  Mordaunt,  in  tones 
more  tender  than  any  which  he  had  ever,  thus 
far,  used  to  Gwyn,  "  once  upon  a  time,  many 
years  ago,  your  father  and  I  made  an  agree- 


FILIAL  AFFECTION. 


115 


ment.  We  were  very  old  friends.  We  were 
boys  together.  We  were  together  at  Eton, 
at  Mngdalen  College,  Oxford,  and  in  the  same 
regiment  in  the  army  for  a  few  years.  We 
married  at  about  the  same  time.  I  lived  here, 
he  in  London ;  but,  though  our  families  were 
separated,  he  and  I  saw  very  much  of  one  an 
other,  and  kept  up  our  friendship.  I  remem 
ber  your  brothers.  On  my  last  visit  to  Lon 
don,  where  his  duties  kept  him  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  year,  they  were  at  home — Bruce 
and  Kane,  fine,  manly  boys,  though  Bruce  was 
not  much  to  my  taste.  It  was  Kane  that  I 
admired.  You,  Gwvn,  must  have  been  a 
baby.  I  didn't  see  you.  Your  father  and  I 
were  speaking  of  our  children.  He  had  only 
sons;  I  had  only  daughters.  We  thought 
that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  one  of  his 
sons  should  marry  one  of  my  daughters,  and 
thus  join  those  two  noble  estates.  We  talked 
it  over  with  enthusiasm,  and  we  both  agreed 
that  it  would  be  too  desirable  a  thing  to  neg 
lect;  and  we  parted  with  the  wish  that  it 
might  eventually  result  in  this.  Alas !  man 
proposes,  but  God  disposes :  our  lives  were 
strangely  altered  from  what  we  anticipated, 
and  I  never  saw  him  again.  But  in  you,  my 
dear  boy,  I  see  him ;  and,  when  I  first  saw 
you  with  my  sweet  Inez,  I  could  not  help 
wishing  that  the  old  hope  of  years  ago  might 
be  fulfilled  in  you  and  her.  Still,  you  must 
remember  that  it  is  not  the  union  of  the  es 
tates  that  I  now  regard ;  these  things  I  con 
sider  as  of  small  importance,  in  comparison 
with  the  welfare  of  my  sweet  Inez.  As  to 
your  brother,  if  there  is  any  mode  of  search 
that  you  can  yet  think  of,  you  had  better  try 
it. — And  that  was  the  end  of  poor  Kane  ? 
And  such  a  noble  boy !  Poor  lad  !  poor,  poor 
lad ! " 

"  You  may  rely  upon  it,"  said  Gwyn,  "  if 
there  is  any  conceivable  way  by  which  I  may 
hear  of  him,  I  will  make  use  of  it." 

"  I  know  that,  of  course,  my  boy,"  said 
Bernal  Mordaunt,  kindly. 

After  this  there  was  a  new  tenderness  on 
Bernal  Mordaunt's  part  toward  Bessie,  which 
also  extended  itself  to  Gwyn.  The  two  young 
people  had  evidently  come  to  an  understand 
ing  ;  and  Bernal  Mordaunt,  in  all  his  words 
and  looks,  showed  plainly  that  he  was  well 
pleased  for  this  to  be  so. 

"  Gwyn,  my  dear  boy,"  said  he,  one  day, 
talking  advantage  of  an  occasion  on  which 
they  happened  to  be  alone,  "  I  wish  to  speak 


to  you  about  that  subject  which  we  were  dis 
cussing  the  other  day.  You  know  how  dear 
to  my  heart  is  the  welfare  of  my  beloved 
Inez.  Every  day  I  think  of  it  more  and 
more,  and  all  the  more  as  I  feel  that  my  own 
end  is  approaching." 

"  0  sir  ! "  began  Gwyn  ;  but  Bernal  Mor 
daunt  checked  him. 

"No,  no,"  said  he,  "I  know  well  what 
you  wish  to  say,  but  it  is  not  necessary.  Be 
lieve  me,  my  own  feelings  in  this  matter  are 
a  sure  guide.  See  how  it  is  with  me.  See 
how  much  weaker  I  now  am  than  I  was  when 
you  first  knew  me.  I  came  home  somewhat 
broken  in  health,  it  is  true,  yet  still  not  so 
much  invalided  but  that  I  might  indulge  in  a 
reasonable  hope  of  recovery.  I  had  worked 
hard  and  suffered  much,  yet  not  more  so  than 
many  of  my  brethren  in  the  same  holy  cause. 
Under  ordinary  circumstances  I  might  hope 
for  a  complete  restoration  to  health  from  a 
return  to  Europe.  Indeed,  the  voyage  home 
proved  wonderfully  beneficial,  so  much  so 
that,  when  I  reached  Rome,  I  was  congratu 
lated  by  every  one  on  my  vigor  and  energy.  I 
went  to  Paris  and  to  London,  and  my  health 
continued  to  improve  in  spite  of  bad  news 
which  I  heard,  and  distressing  doubts,  and 
great  fatigue.  When  I  came  here  I  felt 
strong. 

"  Yet  all  these  hopes  which  I  had  formed 
of  renewed  health  and  prolonged  life,  it  has 
pleased  Heaven  to  make  of  no  avail.  It  may 
be  that  the  purpose  which  lay  before  me 
called  forth  certain  latent  energies,  the  exer 
cise  of  which  was  beneficial ;  and  that,  when 
all  was  gained,  and  there  was  nothing  more 
to  work  for,  the  cessation  of  the  play  of 
these  energies  threw  me  back  upon  my 
self,  and  left  me  to  sink  helplessly  into  this 
weakness  where  I  now  find  myself.  I  put  it 
in  this  way,  for  I  know  no  other  way  in  which 
I  may  account  for  it,  yet  still,  whatever  be  the 
cause,  it  is  a  fact  that,  since  my  return  to 
Mordaunt  Manor,  I  have  grown  steadily  worse 
and  worse  every  day.  At  this  moment  I  feel 
a  profound  weakness  and  a  failure  of  vital 
power,  which  I  am  sure  must  soon  have  a 
fatal  result.  There  is  no  help  for  it.  You 
know,  for  you  have  seen,  how  tenderly,  how 
assiduously,  how  devotedly,  my  sweet  Inez 
has  nursed  me  and  cared  for  me.  My  very 
food  comes  from  her  hands.  Her  deep  love 
for  me  will  allow  no  other  hands  than  her 
own  to  prepare  certain  little  dainties  which 


116 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


she  knows  I  like.  She  watches  me  night  and 
day.  She  hovers  around  me  incessantly.  And 
yet,  what  can  she  do  ?  If  tenderest  love  could 
restore  ms,  hers  would  do  it ;  but,  as  it  is, 
Gwyn" — and  Bernal  Mordaunt's  face  assumed 
a  look  which  afterward  haunted  Gwyn  for 
many  a  day — "  as  it  is,  it  really  seems  as  if 
all  her  fond  care  and  all  her  assiduous  atten 
tion  only  served  to  draw  me  down  more  surely 
to  death. 

"  And  now,  Gwyn,  my  dear  boy,"  he  con 
tinued,  after  a  pause,  "  what  I  wish  to  say  is 
this :  My  days  I  feel  are  numbered.  I  must 
soon  leave  her;  but,  before  I  go,  it  is  the 
one  desire  of  my  heart  to  see  her  future  se 
cured  ;  to  see  her,  in  short,  under  your  pro 
tection  before  she  loses  mine.  I  mention 
this,  my  dear  boy,  because  I  have  it  so  much 
at  heart,  and  because  it  really  seems  to  me 
that,  if  this  were  accomplished,  I  should  die 
content.  Will  you  not  try  to  do  what  you 
can  to  persuade  her  to  grant  this  desire  of 
the  father  whom  she  loves  so  tenderly?  " 

"  Oh,  come,"  said  Gwyn,  "  I  really  think 
you  take  too  desponding  a  view  of  things, 
and,  as  to  what  you  mention,  I'm  sure  I'd  give 
my  eyes  if  I  could  only  induce  her  to  consent. 
Perhaps,  if  you  mentioned  it  to  her,  she  might 
be  more  willing  to  listen  to  me." 

"  I  think  I  had  better  do  so,"  said  Bernal 
Mordaunt,  thoughtfully. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

SELF-SACRIFICE. 

THE  matter  upon  which  Bernal  Mordaunt 
had  spoken  to  Sir  Gwyn  was  one  which  had 
been  prominent  in  his  thoughts  before,  and 
remained  afterward  a  subject  of  still  more 
absorbing  importance.  His  deep  love  for  his 
daughter  forced  him  to  dwell  upon  this  idea; 
and  the  more  he  felt  his  own  increasing 
weakness,  the  more  anxious  he  was  to  secure 
his  daughter's  future  before  he  should  leave 
her  forever.  All  that  he  had  said  to  Sir 
Gwyn  he  felt  to  be  true.  It  was  true  that 
his  health  had  improved  after  leaving  the 
East,  and  that  he  had  constantly  gained 
strength  up  to  that  moment  when  he  had 
reached  Mordaunt  Manor.  It  was  true  that, 
since  that  time,  a  change  had  taken  place  for 
the  worst,  and  that  ever  since  he  had  steadily 
and  uninterruptedly  grown  weaker ;  and,  con 


sequently,  if  he  looked  forward  to  the  worst, 
and  confidently  expected  that  death  alone 
could  end  this,  he  was  justified  in  his  opin 
ion.  What  might  be  the  cause  of  this  change 
for  the  worse  Bernal  Mordaunt  himself  did 
not  know.  It  might  be  supposed  that  the 
pleasant  surroundings  of  home,  the  perfect 
rest  and  calm,  and,  above  all,  the  unwearied 
attentions  of  Bessie,  would  have  had  nothing 
but  a  beneficial  effect  upon  him  ;  yet  Bernal 
Mordaunt  had  plainly  stated  his  belief  that 
they  had  produced  upon  him  an  effect  which 
was  the  very  opposite. 

But  his  daughter's  future  was  now  the 
chief  thing  upon  his  mind,  and  soon  he  felt 
too  impatient  to  postpone  any  further  the 
arrangement  which  he  longed  to  have  made. 

"  My  dearest  Inez,"  said  he,  one  evening, 
after  Sir  Gwyn  had  left  them,  "  there  is  some 
thing  that  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  about." 

"  What  is  it,  papa  dear  ?  "  said  Bessie. 

They  were  alone  together — he  in  an  arm 
chair,  she  on  a  stool  at  his  feet — and,  as  he 
spoke,  she  put  her  little  hand  in  his.  He 
pressed  it  between  his  own,  and  went  on : 

"  It  concerns  you,  my  dearest  Inez,  and 
is,  therefore,  the  fondest  wish  of  my  heart. 
You  see  how  I  am  now  and  how  I  have  been, 
dear,  since  my  return  home.  I  grow  weaker 
and  weaker  every  day,  and  I  cannot  help 
looking  forward  to  the  time  when  I  shall 
have  to  leave  you." 

"  Leave  me,  papa  dearest  ?  Why,  what 
do  you  mean  ?  What  are  you  going  to  leave 
me  for  ?  Are  you  tired  of  me  ?  Are  you 
going  back  to  those  horrid  Chinamen  and 
Turks  ?  You  shall  never  go  near  them,  or, 
if  you  do,  I  will  go  with  you,  so  I  will." 

Bernal  Mordaunt  shook  his  head  mourn 
fully. 

"I  meant  a  different  journey,  Inez  dar 
ling,"  said  he,  "  and  one  on  which  no  earthly 
friend,  however  true  and  loving,  could  ever 
accompany  me.  It  is  a  journey  which  I  and 
you  and  all  must  go  alone,  and  that  journey 
is  nearer,  I  think,  now  than  ever  it  was  be 
fore  ;  and  this  is  the  journey  that  I  speak  of; 
and  I  do  not  wish  to  go  on  it  until  I  accom 
plish  something  that  is  very  important." 

At  this,  Bessie  withdrew  her  hand,  and 
clasped  this  and  the  other  together.  Then, 
shrinking  back,  she  fixed  her  large  blue  eyes 
on  Bernal  Mordaunt  with  a  look  of  fear. 

"  0>  PaPa  '• "  £he  cried-  "  °)  PaPa  J  dear» 
dearest  papa!  how  horrid  it  is  for  you  to 


SELF-SACRIFICE. 


117 


talk  so !  0,  papa !  why  do  you  talk  so  ? 
0,  papa !  what  makes  you  so  cruel  ?  You 
cannot  mean  what  you  say.  It's  false,  so  it 
is.  You're  not  worse,  at  all,  at  all.  Oh,  how 
terrible  it  is  for  you  to  speak  such  words,  and 
sure  but  it's  meself  that's  the  heart-broken 
girl  this  day  !  " 

"  My  dearest  child,"  said  Bernal  Mordaunt, 
leaning  forward  and  placing  his  hand  tenderly 
on  her  golden,  rippling  hair,  "  my  own  Inez, 
these  things  must  be  said.  If  there  is  a  sor 
row  to  come,  it  is  better  to  be  prepared." 

'But  I  don't  want  any  sorrow  to  come," 
said  Bessie,  "and  I  can't  bear  it.  If  any 
sorrow  comes,  I'm  sure  I  shall  die." 

Bernal  Mordiunt  sighed.  The  thought  of 
her  loving  and  tender  nature  was  too  much 
for  him.  She  was  so  profound  and  absorbed 
in  her  affection.  How  could  this  slender 
young  girl,  whose  whole  nature  seemed  made 
up  of  tenderness,  who  lived  only  to  love  or 
be  loved,  bear  the  rude  shock  of  affliction,  of 
bereavement  ? 

"  My  sweet  child,"  said  he,  in  a  tremulous 
voice,  "  Heaven  knows  how  gladly  I  would  do 
any  thing  to  save  you  from -sorrow— how 
gladly  I  would  put  myself  between  you  and 
every  possible  evil.  But  'such  things  cannot 
be,  and  there  are  none  so  pure  and  so  inno 
cent  but  that  they  must  bear  their  share  of 
the  ills  of  our  common  humanity.  If  I  am  to 
leave  you,  and  if  my  loss  gives  you  such  sor 
row,  I  might  almost  regret,  for  your  sake, 
Inez  dearest,  that  I  ever  came  home,  and 
called  forth  so  much  love  from  you,  only  to 
wring  your  tender  heart;  yet,  for  my  own 
sake,  I  cannot  but  rejoice  that  I  have  found 
you  and  known  you,  and  felt  your  tender  love 
before  I  go." 

At  this  Bessie  bowed  herself  down  and 
hid  her  face  iu  her  hands.  Her  form  trem 
bled  violently,  and  gave  signs  of  deep  emo 
tion. 

Bernal  Mordaunt  was  himself  overcome 
by  the  sight  of  this,  and  therefore  changed 
the  conversation  to  something  else. 

A  few  days  afterward,  however,  he  re 
turned  to  the  point,  and  this  time  he  did  not 
dwell  so  much  upon  that  mournful  theme 
which  proved  so  painful  to  Bessie. 

"You  see,  my  dearest  Inez,"  said  he, 
after  some  preliminary  explanations,  "how 
my  heart  is  set  upon  this.  I  really  suffer 
from  tha  thought  that  your  only  protector 
and  guardian  is  a  feeble  old  man.  Now,  if 


any  thing  should  happen  to  me,  what  would 
become  of  you  ?  " 

"But  nothing  shall  happen  to  you,  papa 
dearest ;  and  if  any  thing  should,  why— why 
—I— I—  don't— don't  want  any  thing  to  be 
come  of  me  at  all.  I  want  to  lie  down  and 
die,  so  I  do,  and  there  you  have  it." 

"  I  know  well  your  devoted  love,  my  own 
darling  daughter,"  said  Bernal  Mordaunt, 
fondly,  yet  sadly,  "  but  I  am  now  speaking 
about  my  own  feelings.  I  may  be  utterly  in 
the  wrong  about  myself  and  my  health,  as 
you  say  I  am  ;  yet  still  I  feel  this  way.  Now, 
my  own  child,  you  always  think  of  my  wishes 
and  make  them  your  law.  Do  you  think  that 
you  would  grant  a  request  of  mine  which  lies 
very  near  my  heart  ?  " 

Bessie  looked  up  with  childish  inno 
cence. 

"  What  is  it,  papa  dear  ?  "  she  asked. 
"It  is  this,  my  child:  I  wish  to  see  you 
with  some  protector — less  frail  and  feeble 
than  I  am.  I  might  nominate  a  guardian,  but 
I  know  of  none.  Poor  Wyverne  is  gone. 
None  of  my  acquaintances  here  are  congenial 
except  one ;  and  it  is  this  one  under  whose 
guardianship  I  should  like  to  see  you  before  I 
— before  I  grow  any  worse." 

"  Who  is  he  papa,  dear  ?  "  asked  Bessie, 
in  the  most  unsuspicious  manner. 
"  Our  dear  friend  Gwyn." 
"Gwyn!"  exclaimed  Bessie,    "my  guar- 
dian  !  "     She  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 
Yes  my  dearest  Inez.     He  shall  be  your 
guardian,  the  kind  of  guardian  which  his  love 
for  you  and  your  feelings  toward  him  would 
make  most  fitting.     In  short,  the  highest  de 
sire  of  my  life  is  to  see  you  his  wife  before  I 
grow  worse." 

At  this  Bessie  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands,  bowed  down,  and  said  not  a  word. 

"  You  are  betrothed,  why  should  you 
wait?  Why  not  grant  an  old  man's  wish 
when  it  lies  so  near  his  heart  ?  This  is  my 
strongest  desire,  Inez  darling.  You  will  not 
refuse  it  when  I  ask  it  so  earnestly.  And  it 
is  all  for  your  own  sake.  Can  you  decide 
now?" 

"  Oh,  papa  !  dear,  dear  papa  !  I  do  so  wish 
that  you  would  get  this  absurd  idea  out  of 
your  head." 

"It's  my  wish,  dearest  Inez,"  said  Mor 
daunt,  earnestly. 

"Oh,  papa  dear,  how  you  do  put  things! 
You  know  how  eager  I  always  am  to  do  even 


118 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


the  slightest  little  thing  that  you  want  me  to, 
but  this  is  like  asking  me  to  desert  you,  and 
how  can  I  possibly  do  that?  No,  papa — my 
own  papa— I  know  that  poor  dear  Gwyn  is 
awfully  fond  of  me,  and  I  like  him  too,  and  I 
have  told  him  so ;  but  if  it  comes  to  leaving 
you,  papa  dearest,  why  I  won't,  and  I'd  give 
him  up  before  you,  so  I  would,  and  there  you 
have  it." 

Saying  this,  Bessie  seized  Mord aunt's 
hands,  and,  hiding  her  face  in  them,  she 
covered  them  with  kisses.  Tears  stood  in 
Mordaunt's  eyes  ;  the  devotion  of  this  daugh 
ter  was  wonderful.  His  father's  heart  yearned 
over  her  with  inexpressible  tenderness ;  and 
yet  out  of  that  very  tenderness  he  still  was 
firm  in  his  resolve  to  exert  all  his  power  to 
bring  the  marriage  about.  It  was  for  her 
sake.  Should  he  die,  the  marriage  would  be 
postponed  for  a  long  time,  and  during  such  a 
postponement  it  might  be  prevented  altogeth 
er  by  some  casualty. 

All  this  he  pointed  out  to  Bessie,  and,  to 
gether  with  this,  he  brought  forward  other 
persuasives,  but  urged  most  of  all  his  own 
wish,  which,  whether  reasonable  or  unrea 
sonable,  was  so  set  upon  this  that  a  disap 
pointment  would  grieve  him  sorely.  One  by 
one  Bessie's  objections  and  scruples,  and 
they  were  many,  were  argued  away  or  set 
aside,  and  at  last  she  had  no  other  resource 
than  to  assent.  Yet,  even  then,  she  made  a 
most  express  stipulation  that  her  marriage 
with  Sir  Gwyn  should  make  no  difference  in 
their  mode  of  life— that  they  should  still  live 
at  Mordaunt  Manor,  and  that  she  should  be 
his  nurse  and  his  attendant  as  before.  To 
these  things  Mordaunt  consented,  and  Sir 
Gwyn  was  only  too  glad  to  win  Bessie  under 
any  circumstances. 

Having  thus  gained  Bessie's  consent,  Mor 
daunt  was  urgent  in  pressing  her  to  arrange 
it  at  an  early  date.  His  own  health  now  de 
clined  even  more  rapidly,  and  this  made  him 
all  the  more  impatient.  Sir  Gwyn,  also,  who 
saw  Mordaunt's  impatience,  united  his  own 
ardent  entreaties,  and  Bessie  was  unable  to 
refuse. 

The  marriage  thus  took  place  about  a 
month  after  Mordaunt  had  gained  Bessie's 
acquiescence.  Prominent  among  those  who 
witnessed  the  ceremony  was  Mordaunt,  who 
sat  in  a  chair  in  the  centre  aisle,  propped  up 
with  pillows.  His  strength  had  failed  so 
much  that  he  had  come  to  this.  But  the  ef 


fort  was  too  much,  and  he  was  so  exhausted 
that  on  his  way  home  he  fainted. 

Sir  Gwyn  and  Lady  Ruthven  went  on  A 
short  tour  through  the  Highlands,  but  were 
not  gone  more  than  a  fortnight.  Bessie's 
anxiety  would  not  allow  her  to  remain  away 
longer.  She  had  to  fly  back  to  her  "  dear, 
dear  papa."  Mordaunt  seemed  somewhat 
better,  in  spite  of  the  over-exerticn  at  the 
wedding.  There  was  more  strength  in  his 
frame,  more  color  in  his  cheeks.  When  the 
bridal  pair  left,  he  was  unable  to  stand  alone. 
Now  he  could  walk  about  the  bouse,  and  up 
and  down  the  piazza. 

Sir  Gwyn  was  overjoyed,  and  Bessie  ex 
pressed  herself  in  terms  of  the  highest  de 
light. 

Encouraging  as  this  improvement  in  Mor 
daunt  was,  however,  it  proved  but  tempo 
rary ;  and  Bessie  had  scarce  resumed  her 
former  fond  attendance  upon  her  "  dearest, 
darling  papa,"  when  the  strength  that  had 
begun  to  return,  once  more  began  to  leave 
him.  This  created  the  deepest  dejection  in 
him.  He  had  begun  to  hope.  All  hope 
seemed  now  to  be  gone. 

Lady  Ruthven  received  the  congratulatory 
visits  of  the  country  people,  who  found  her  in 
her  new  dignity  more  charming  than  ever. 
But  the  universal  popularity  which  she  had 
gained  in  no  way  changed  the  simplicity  of 
her  character  and  manner.  There  was  no 
affectation,  nor  was  there  any  attempt  to  lay 
aside  the  little  peculiarities  which  had  al 
ways  formed  at  once  her  distinction  and  no 
little  of  her  charm. 

Nor  did  the  new  social  duties  which  now 
devolved  upon  her  draw  Lady  Ruthven  away 
from  those  duties  to  which  Bessie  had  been 
so  devoted.  Mordaunt  saw,  with  new  tender 
ness,  that  her  promise  to  him  had  not  been  a 
vain  one;  and  that  the  husband  had  not 
eclipsed  the  father.  To  Mordaunt  she  al 
lotted  more  time  than  either  to  her  husband 
or  to  the  world.  The  attendant  physicians 
thought  that  her  unremitting  care  had  pro 
longed  the  old  man's  life  beyond  what  would 
have  been  its  term  under  other  circum 
stances;  and  society,  which  already  ad 
mired  her  for  her  beauty  and  amiability,  now 
adored  her  for  her  tender  devotion  and  her 
filial  piety.  Gwyn,  also,  in  winning  the 
daughter,  had  not  forgotten  the  father;  but, 
as  the  lover  had  been,  so  was  the  husband, 
and  he  found  the  society  of  his  wife  none  the 


SELF-SACRIFICE. 


119 


less  pleasant  in  Mordaunt's  chamber  than  else 
where. 

But ,  Mordaunt's  days  were  numbered 
This  was  evident.  He  knew  it  himseli 
Gwyn  knew  it.  Bessie  tried  to  reject  th 
belief,  but  it  could  be  seen  that  she  dreadei 
the  worst.  There  was  about  her,  at  times 
a  hurried  nervousness,  a  dreamy  abstraction 
a  fearful,  furtive  glance,  unlike  any  thing  tha 
had  ever  before  been  seen  in  her  by  he 
friends.  Gwyn  noticed  this,  and  urged  he 
in  his  loving  way  to  take  more  rest,  but  Bes 
sie  turned  it  off  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh. 

Mordaunt's  days  were  numbered.  Since 
the  return  of  the  newly-married  pair,  his 
strength  began  to  fail  him,  and  he  descended 
by  ever-accelerated  degrees  down  toward  the 
last  verge  of  life.  But,  with  each  succeeding 
stage  of  weakness,  Bessie's  care  grew  more 
and  more  unremitting.  At  length  she  had  to 
deny  herself  to  all  visitors,  and  confine  her 
self  to  Mordaunt's  chamber. 

As  the  old  man  descended  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  dark  waters  of  death,  his 
heart  still  turned  with  yearning  affection  and 
inexpressible  gratitude  to  this  bright  young 
being  whose  love  had  so  glorified  the  last 
days  of  his  life.  He  had  come  home,  as  he 
now  saw,  to  die  ;  but  how  sweet  it  was  to  de 
scend  to  death  in  such  society ;  to  feel  her 
soft  touch,  to  hear  her  voice  of  love,  her 
low-breathed  tones  of  tender  affection,  all 
the  way!  To  the  worn-out  man  death  that 
came  in  this  way  could  scarce  be  deemed 
unwelcome.  Could  any  death  be  better  or 
brighter  ? 

It  was  Bessie  who  thus  cheered  his  last 
hours.  She  read  to  him  when  he  wished  it. 
She  sung  to  him  the  hymns  or  the  chants 
which  he  loved— hymns  and  chants  which  she 
had  already  learned  for  his  sake.  He  loved 
to  listen  to  her  voice  as  she  thus  sung,  clasp 
ing  her  hand  the  while  as  though  he  gathered 
strength  from  her.  She  also,  as  always  be 
fore,  poured  out  all  his  draughts,  and  admin 
istered  to  him  all  his  medicines.  This  was  a 
privilege  which  she  had  claimed  from  the 
first,  and  the  old  man  expected  it ;  and,  dur 
ing  her  absence  on  the  bridal  tour,  he  missed 
this  tender  attention,  even  though  his  health 
had  been  better  without  it. 

So  the  days  passed,  and  Bessie  showed  her 
tender  and  solicitous  love. 

Thus  the  last  hour  drew  near. 

For  a  whole  day  he  had  been  at  the  verge 


of  dissolution.  Bessie  liad  refused  to  leave 
his  bedside.  She  Sat  there,  holding  his  hand, 
and  wiping  the  cold  dews  of  death  from  hia 
brow.  In  that  same  room  was  Gwyn,  watch 
ing  the  dying  face  of  Mordaunt ;  watching 
also  the  pale  face  of  his  devoted  wife,  who  in 
her  deep  love  for  a  father  thought  nothing  of 
herself.  He  was  afraid  of  the  reaction  from 
all  this  ;  yet  he  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Bes 
sie  refused  to  leave  the  room  till  all  was  over ; 
and  he  knew  n9t  what  arguments  to  bring 
forward  at  such  a  time.  The  family  physi 
cian  was  also  there,  counting  the  moments 
that  might  elapse  till  all  should  be  over,  and 
looking  with  unfeigned  emotion  upon  the 
scene  before  him,  where  the  daughter  clung 
so  to  the  dying  father,  as  though  she  would 
drag  him  back  from  death  unto  life. 

Suddenly  the  dying  man  opened  his  eyes, 
and  fixed  them  on  Bessie.     His  lips  moved. 
She  bent  down  low  to  listen. 
"  Inez,"  said  he. 

"  Yes,  papa  dearest,"  said  Bessie. 
Mordaunt  stared  at  her. 
"  You  are  not  Inez!'1'1  said  he,  in  a  voice 
which  was  audible  to  all  in  the  room. 

Bessie  shook  her  head  mournfully,  and 
looked  at  her  husband. 

"  His  mind  is  wandering  still,  poor  papa ! 
He  is  thinking  of  poor,  dear,  darling  mamma, 
so  he  is.  Her  name  was  Inez,  too,  the  same 
as  mine." 

Mordaunt's  eyes  closed. 

After  about  an  hour  he  opened  them 
once  more,  and  again  they  rested  on  Bessie. 
Those  who  looked  at  his  face  now  saw  that 
the  last  great  change  had  come  over  it.  Death- 
struck  was  that  face  now,  yet  the  eyes  were 
full  of  intelligence,  and  beamed  with  inex- 
3ressible  tenderness  as  they  rested  on  Bessie. 

"  Inez  —  dearest  —  best  —  daughter  !  "  he 
said. 

Bessie  bent  down  low  over  him. 

"  Kiss— me— Inez !  " 

Bessie  pressed  her  lips  to  his  cold  fore- 
iead. 

Such  were  the  last  words  of  Bernal  Mor- 
aunt.  He  was  buried  in  a  manner  worthy 
f  the  great  house  of  which  he  was  the  last 
epresentative. 

Lady  Ruthven  was  greatly  prostrated  by 
his  last  blow,  yet  she  rallied  from  it  with  un- 
xpected  rapidity.  But  the  melancholy  eTent 
tiat  had  just  occurred  made  Mordaunt  Manor 
istasteful  to  her  now  ;  and  so  she  yielded  to 


120 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


her  husband's  earnest  solicitations,  and  went 
with  him  to  take  up  her  permanent  abode  at 
Ruthven  Towers. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

A    STRANGE    MEETING. 

THE  letter  which  Blake  had  written  was 
delivered  to  Kane  Hellmuth  on  the  following 
day.     It  excited  much  surprise  on  the  part 
of  the  latter,  and  for  a  twofold  reason:  first, 
because  his  friend's   departure  was  so  sud 
den  ;  and,  secondly,  because  the  letter  itself 
was  so  incoherent  and  unsatisfactory.     The 
construction  of  the  sentences  was  most  con 
fused  and  awkward  ;  and  it  was  impossible  to 
find  out  where  he  had  gone,  and  what  he  had 
gone  for.     Kane  Hellmuth  could  not  suspect 
so  frank  a  nature  as  that  of  Blake  of  any 
thing  like  deceit ;  and,  if  the  letter  was  am 
bitious  or  unintelligible,  he  chose  rather  to 
attribute  it  to  haste,  or  sleepiness,  on  the 
part  of  the  writer.     He  had  seen  him  on  the 
previous  day,  and  Blake  had  made  no  men 
tion  of  any  thing  of  the  kind ;  nor  did  he 
seem  to  have  any  idea  of  going  on  a  journey. 
He  was  certainly  a  little  abstracted  in  his 
manner,  for  Kane  Hellmuth's  own  cares  had 
not  altogether  prevented  him  from  noticing 
that ;  but  this  may  have  arisen  from  his  anx 
iety  about  his  mother,  from  whom,  as  he  him 
self  had  said,  he  had  not  heard  for  some  time. 
He  could  only  understand  this  mysterious  let 
ter  by  supposing  that  some  friend  of  Blake's 
had  written  to  him,  or  come  to  him,  and  given 
him   information   of  some   sudden    opening 
which  he  had  to  accept  at  once.     Thinking, 
therefore,  that  Blake  would  either  be  back, 
or  write  more  fully  before  long,  he  put  the 
letter  away,  and  waited  in  the  expectation  of 
hearing  more. 

Days  passed,  however,  and  weeks   also, 


and  even  months,  without  any  further  com 
munication.  This  surprised  Kane  Hellmuth, 
for  he  had  expected  different  things ;  and, 
taken  in  connection  with  the  incoherent  let 
ter,  it  gave  him  some  anxiety.  He  also  felt 
this  another  way,  for  he  had  conceived  a 
strong  regard  for  his  friend,  and  liked  to  run 
in  to  see  him,  or  have  him  drop  in  to  his  own 
apartments.  The  matter,  therefore,  took  up 
a  good  share  of  his  thoughts,  and  he  could 
not  help  the  suspicion  that  there  was  some 


evil  involved  in  this  sudden  and  mysterious 
flight.     What  it  could  be  he  did  not  know, 
for  he  was  not  aware  of  any  circumstances 
which  might  inspire  any  one  with  evil  designs 
against   him;    and   so,   in   default   of  other 
things,  his  mind  dwelt  upon  that  strange  in 
tercourse  which  Blake  had  held  with  Mr.  Wy- 
verae,  which  was  terminated  by  the  wonder 
ful  declaration  of  the  latter,  and  his  death. 
Although  he  had  heard  Father  Magrath's  ex 
planation  of  that  affair,  and  fully  believed  it, 
yet  still,  in  spite  of  this,  he  could  not  help 
connecting  it  in  some  way  with  Blake's  pres 
ent  disappearance,  and  the  thought  occurred 
to  him  often  and  often  that  if,  after  all,  it 
were  true,  Blake  might  have  enemies  ;  though 
who  they  could  be,  and  what  motive  for  en 
mity  they  could  possibly  have,  was  utterly  be 
yond  his  comprehension. 

Thus  the  time  passed,  and  as  the  months 
went  by  without  any  news  from  his  friend,  he 
began  to  fear  the  worst,  though  such  was  his 
ignorance  of  Blake's  movements  that  he  did 
not  know  what  to  do  to  search  him  out.  The 
concierge  of  the  house  uhere  Blake  had 
stopped  could  tell  him  nothing  except  that  on 
a  certain  morning  he  had  gone  in  company 
with  another  person,  and  had  left  directions 
that  his  trunk  should  be  taken  care  of.  He 
did  not  know  who  the  other  person  was,  and 
the  description  which  he  gave  of  him  afforded 
no  intelligence  to  Kane  Hellmuth.  To  the 
police  it  was,  of  course,  useless  to  apply,  for 
the  meagre  information  which  he  could  sup 
ply  them  with  would  not  be  enough  to  yield 
them  any  clew  by  which  they  might  be  guided 
to  a  search.  His  helplessness  in  this  matter 
was  therefore  complete,  and  that  very  help 
lessness  made  the  whole  affair  more  painful 
to  him. 

Before 'this  he  had  "been  the  prey  of  one 
great  and  engrossing  trouble,  which  arose 
from  that  mysterious  and  inexplicable  appa 
rition  whose  visitations  he  had  described  to 
Blake.  Now  this  new  trouble  had  taken  up 
his  thoughts  more  and  more,  until  at  length 
his  own  affair  had  come  to  occupy  but  a 
small  portion  of  his  attention.  It  was  not 
forgotten  by  any  means ;  it  was  only  pushed 
over  into  a  subordinate  place,  and  ceased  to 
be  a  supreme  care.  The  possible  evil  im 
pending  over  Blake  seemed  to  him  more  for 
midable  than  any  thing  tbnt  could  arise  from 
his  own  experiences ;  and  so  it  was  that,  in 
the  mystery  which  had  gathered  around  Blake, 


A   STRANGE   MEETING. 


121 


his  own  peculiar  mystery  had  grown  to  be  a  I 
matter  of  minor  importance. 

Such  was   the  state  of  Kane  Hellmuth's  { 
mind,  when  one  day  he  was  wandering  through 
the  streets  on  the  way  to  his  rooms.    He  was 
approaching  the  street  up  which  he  intended 
to  turn,  and  was  about  six  feet  from  the  cor 
ner,  when  suddenly  at  the  opposite  corner  he 
caught  sight  of  a  figure  which  at  once  drove 
from  his  mind  all  thoughts  of  Blake,  and  re 
stored  in  its  fullest  intensity  all  those  myste 
rious  feelings  which  he  had  described  in  nar 
rating  his  story  of  the  apparition.     It  was  a 
female  figure.     The  face  was  thin,  and  pallid, 
and  careworn  ;  the  eyes  were  large  and  dark, 
and   rested  for  a  moment  upon  him.     The 
very  first  glance  showed  him  that  this  was 
the  face  of  his  "  apparition  "  in  very  truth, 
and  beyond  a  doubt ;    and  so  profound  was 
the  shock  that,  for  a  moment,  as  he  stared 
back,  he  felt  rooted  to  the  spot. 

But  about  this  apparition  there  were  cer 
tain  peculiarities  of  an  important  kind.  The 
face  was  precisely  the  same— the  same  pallor 
— the  same  deep,  dark  eyes — the  same  fixed, 
unfathomable  gaze;  yet  in  other  things  a 
change  was  observable.  The  expression  was 
no  longer  one  of  reproach ;  it  was  rather  one 
of  sudden  terror— a  terror  like  his  own;  the 
glance  was  not  long  and  sustained— it  was 
rather  furtive  and  hasty.  Moreover,  though 
this  apparition  was  dressed  in  black,  it  was 
not  the  costume  of  a  nun  ;  it  was  simple  and 
sober,  yet  it  was  the  fashion  of  the  day  ;  and 
this  change  from  the  weird  and  unfamiliar,  to 
the  commonplace  and  familiar,  of  itself  went 
far  to  steady  Kane  Hellmuth's  nerves,  and 
prevent  him  from  sinking  into  that  lament 
able  weakness  which  had  characterized  his 
former  meetings  with  this  mysterious  being. 

He  stopped  there  for  a  moment,  rooted  to 
the  spot,  with  his  brain  in  a  whirl,  and  all  his 
former  feelings  overwhelming  him  ;  but  the 
emotion  was  more  short-lived  than  before, 
since  these  changes  in  the  form  and  fashion 
and  expression  of  the  figure  were  noticed  at 
once,  and  went  far  to  reassure  him.  The 
figure  threw  one  hasty,  furtive  look  at  him, 
and  then,  sharply  turning  the  opposite  corner] 
walked  quickly  up  the  street. 

^  In  an  instant  Kane  Hellmuth  started  in  pur 
suit.  It  was  an  irresistible  fascination  that  drew 
him  on.  He  was  resolved  now  to  do  what  he 
could  to  fathom  this  mystery  that  so  long  had 
troubled  him.  Every  step  that  he  took  seemed 


to  bring  back  his  presence  of  mind,  and  drive 
away  those  feelings   of  superstitious  terror 
that  had  at  first  been  thrown  over  his  soul. 
Every  step  that  he  took  seemed  to  show  him 
that  he  was  the  stronger,  and  that  the  other 
was    the    weaker.      Every   thing   was    now 
on    his    side.      Surrounding    circumstances 
favored  him.     It  was  broad  day.      It  was  a 
public  street,  on  which  people  were  passing 
to  and  fro,  and  the  ordinary  every-day  traffic 
was  going  on.     There  was  no  chance  here  for 
any  of  that  jugglery  which  might  deceive  the 
senses  ;  or  any  of  those  associations  of  night, 
and  gloom,  and  solemnity,  which  on  the  last 
memorable  meeting  had  baffled  his   search. 
Moreover,  the  face  of  the  Figure  was  turned 
away.     It  was  Its  back  that  he  saw.     The 
Figure  moved  rapidly  on,  yet  not  so  rapid 
ly  but  that  he  could  keep  up  with  It,  or  even 
overtake  It.     It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was 
the  pursuer,  and  the  Figure  the  pursued,  and 
that  now,  if  he  followed  vigorously,  all  might 
be  at  last  revealed. 

Kane  Hellmuth  thus  followed  from  one  cor 
ner  to  the  next.  Then  the  Figure  crossed  the 
street  to  the  opposite  corner.  He  followed. 
Then  the  Figure  turned,  and  fixed  its  eyes 
again  on  Kane  Hellmuth.  It  was  the  same 
glance  as  before,  intensified.  It  was  a  sud 
den  glance,  and  one,  too,  which  showed  signs 
of  unmistakable  fear.  Yet  the  face  was  the 

same — it  was  the  face  of  his  apparition the 

face  that  had  haunted  him  for  years the  face 

that  was  associated  with  the  brightest  and 
the  darkest  hours  of  all  his  life.  The  look  of 
fear  was  something  new,  yet  it  seemed  to 
heighten  his  own  resolution  and  strengthen 
his  own  heart;  for  now  it  seemed  as  though 
the  tables  had  been  turned,  and  all  the  fear 
which  once  had  been  felt  by  him  had  passed 
over  to  the  other. 

The  Figure  now  walked  on  faster.  Evi 
dently  It  was  trying  to  fly  from  him.  He 
himself  increased  his  pace.  Easy  enough  was 
it  for  him  to  keep  up  even  with  this  utmost 
exertion  of  the  other.  In  a  race  like  this  he 
was  the  superior.  He  saw  it ;  he  felt  it. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  supernatural  here. 
Could  it  indeed  be  ?  Was  she,  then,  alive  ? 
But,  if  so,  why  did  she  fly?  What  did  she 
mean?  It  was  a  living  woman  that  was 
before  his  eyes,  fearing  him,  flying  from  him, 
overcome  with  human  terror. 

The  woman  hurried  on.  Kane  Hellmuth 
hurried  after.  Suddenly  she  hailed  a  passing 


122 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


cab.  The  cab  drew  up  at  the  sidewalk.  The 
cabman  got  down  to  open  the  door.  Already 
the  woman's  hand  was  on  the  door,  and  her 
foot  was  on  the  curb,  when  Kane  Hellmuth 
reached  the  spot.  He  did  not  stand  on  cere 
mony.  Too  deep  was  his  anxiety  to  learn 
the  truth  of  this  matter  for  him  to  observe 
any  of  the  petty  courtesies  of  life.  lie  was 
not  rude  or  rough ;  he  was  simply  earnest, 
and  in  his  desperate  earnestness,  and  ia  his 
deep  longing  to  know  all,  he  laid  his  hand 
suddenly  and  sharply  upon  the  woman's 
arm. 

She  turned  hastily  and  stared  at  him, 
showing  a  face  that  was  filled  with  an  an 
guish  of  terror.  Her  lips  moved,  but  no 
sound  escaped  them.  Then,  while  Kane 
Hellmuth's  hand  still  clutched  her  arm,  a 
low  moan  escaped  her,  she  reeled,  and  would 
have  fallen  if  he  had  not  caught  her  in  his 
arms. 

The  cabman  stood  by  observing  this 
scene  calmly.  It  was  no  business  of  his.  He 
did  not  understand  it,  of  course,  but  then  it 
was  often  his  fortune  to  be  a  witness  of  unin 
telligible  scenes  like  this. 

Meanwhile,  the  woman  hung  senseless  on 
Kane  Hellmuth's  arms.  For  a  moment  he 
was  puzzled  what  to  do.  Where  was  her 
residence  ?  He  did  not  know.  Where  should 
he  take  her  ?  No  apparition  was  this — this 
being  of  flesh  and  blood  of  whose  weight  he 
was  sensible ;  but  rather  a  living  human  be 
ing.  But  oh  !  who — and  why  had  she  sought 
him  out  ? 

Pie  did  not  hesitate  long.  He  lifted  her 
into  the  cab,  and  then,  getting  in  himself,  he 
gave  the  cabman  his  own  address.  The  cab 
man  drove  there  at  once,  and,  as  it  was 
not  far  away,  they  soon  reached  the  place. 
Kane  Hellmuth  then  took  the  woman  in  his 
arms,  and  carried  her  up  to  his  own  apart 
ments.  Then  he  sent  up  the  women  of  the 
house,  and  waited  the  result. 

The  usual  restoratives  were  applied,  and 
the  woman  came  out  of  her  senselessness. 
She  looked  wildly  around,  and  for  some  time 
was  unable  to  comprehend  her  situation. 
Then  a  sudden  look  of  terror  came  over  her 
face,  and  she  began  to  implore  the  women  to 
let  her  go. 

The  women  did  not  know  what  to  say. 
Kane  Ilellmuth  had  hurriedly  informed  them 
that  he  had  found  her  fainting  in  the  street, 
and  this  they  told  her. 


"  Then  I  am  not  a  prisoner  here  ?  "  said 
the  woman,  eagerly. 

"  A  prisoner  !  "  exclaimed  one  of  the  at 
tendants  ;  "  mon  Dieu  !  no,  madame.  How 
is  that  possible  ?  You  may  go  when  and 
where  you  please  ;  only  you  must  rest  a  few 
moments.  It  was  a  very  kind  gentleman 
who  brought  you  here,  and  sent  us  up." 

The  woman  gave  a  low  sigh  of  relief,  and 
sunk  back  again.  She  had  been  placed  on 
the  sofa  in  Kane  Hellmuth's  room.  She  was 
young,  and  seemed  to  have  suffered  much. 
She  was  evidently  a  lady. 

Suddenly  she  roused  herself. 

"  Who  brought  me  here  ?  "  she  asked, 
abruptly. 

"  Monsieur  Hellmuth,"  said  the  attendant, 
pronouncing  the  name  as  well  as  she  could. 

"  Hailineet,"  repeated  the  lady,  thought 
fully. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  him— perhaps  he 
can  explain  —  that  there  is  nothing  to 
fear." 

"  I  am  not  a  prisoner,  then  ?  "  said  the 
lady,  earnestly. 

"  Oh,  no — a  prisoner  ?  Mon  Dieu  !  im 
possible  ! " 

"  And  you  are  not  employed  to  detain 
me?  " 

"  Mon  Dieu !  but  mademoiselle  is  rav 
ing — that  is  a  thing  altogether  impossible. 
But  you  must  see  the  good  Monsieur  Hell 
muth. 

With  these  words  the  woman  who  had 
spoken  left  the  room,  and  informed  Kane 
Hellmuth  that  the  young  lady  had  come  to 
her  senses  ;  telling  him  also,  what  she  had 
said.  Her  words  excited  surprise  in  Hell 
muth's  mind,  but  he  was  eager  to  know  all, 
and  so  he  at  once  entered  the  room.  The 
woman  followed  him,  and  waited  there,  to 
gether  with  the  other  attendant. 

Kane  Hellmuth  looked  earnestly  at  the 
pale  face  before  him,  and  the  lady  raised  her 
large,  dark,  melancholy  eyes  to  his  face,  and 
regarded  him  with  equal  earnestness,  though 
in  her  look  there  was  an  anxious  scrutiny 
and  timid  inquiry.  But  the  face  that  she  saw 
seemed  to  have  no  terror  for  her  now,  and  the 
first  look  of  fear  gave  place  to  one  of  mourn 
ful  entreaty. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  she,  in  English,  "  you  are 
an  Englishman  ;  you  cannot  be  capable  of  in 
juring  one  who  never  harmed  you !  I  have 
suffered  enough,  and  why  I  do  not  know." 


i 


A   STRANGE   MEETING. 


123 


At  this,  Kane  Hellmuth  felt  bewildered. 
This  was,  indeed,  a  strange  address  from  her. 
lie  said  nothing  for  a  few  moments,  but  re 
garded  her  with  a  solemn  face,  and  a  look  iu 
which  there  was  nothing  save  tenderness  and 
longing. 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  know  me,"  said  he, 
at  length,  in  a  mournful  tone. 

"I  do  not,"  said  the  lady.  "I  never  saw 
you  before  to-day." 

"Are  you  not  Clara  Ruthven?"  asked 
Kane  Hellmuth,  in  a  tremulous  voice. 
The  lady  shook  her  head. 
"Is  it  all  a  mistake,  then?"  cried  Kane 
Hellmuth,  in  a  voice  that  was  a  wail  of  de 
spair.    "  Are  you  not  my  Clara  ?   Are  you  not 
Clara  Mordaunt,  who — " 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  lady.  At  the 
mention  of  the  name  of  Clara  Mordaunt  she 
started  from  the  sofa  to  her  feet,  and  stared 
at  him  in  amazement. 

"  Clara  Mordaunt ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  Clara 
Mordaunt !  Who  are  you  ?  What  do  you 
know  about  Clara  Mordaunt?  Clara  Mor 
daunt  ! "  she  repeated,  and  again  the  fright 
ened  look  came  to  her  face.  "  Oh,  sir,  if  you 
ure  in  league  with  those  who  have  so  cruelly 
wronged  me,  have  pity  on  me !  Do  not,  oh, 
do  not  detain  me !  Let  me  go.  My  life  is 
wretched  enough,  and  my  only  hope  is  to 
have  my  freedom  till  I  die." 

"Answer  me  this,"  said  Kane  Ilellmutli, 
in  a  hoarse  voice,  which  was  tremulous  still 
with  deepest  emotion.  "  I  am  no  enemy ;  I 
have  no  evil  designs ;  if  you  are  a  stranger, 
after  all,  you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me  ; 
if  you  are  in  trouble,  I  swear  I  will  do  what  I 
can  to  help  you,  but  only  answer  me.  If  you 
are  not  Clara  Ruthven,  she  who  was  born 
Clara  Mordaunt,  in  Heaven's  name  who  are 
you,  and  why  have  you  appeared  before  me 
in  so  many  places  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  appeared  before  you,"  said 
the  lady.  "  I  never  saw  you  before.  You  ask 
after  Clara  Mordaunt.  I  am  not  Clara  Mor 
daunt.  Clara  Mordaunt  is  dead.  She  died 
ten  years  ago.  Why  do  you  ask  me  if  I  am 
Clara  Mordaunt  ?  " 

"  Dead  ! "  repeated  Kane  Hellmuth,  in  a 
hollow  voice.  "  Well,  that  is  what  every  one 
says,  but  I  swear  I  never  saw  in  any  human 
face  such  a  resemblance  to  any  other  human 
face  as  there  is  in  yours  to  the  face  of  Clara 
Mordaunt !  But  what  do  you  mean  by  saying 
that  you  never  appeared  to  me  before  ? 


Were    you    not    at    Pere-  la  -Chaise   Ceme 
tery  ? »' 

"Never,"  said  the  lady.  "I  never  saw 
you  before." 

"  What !  were  not  you  the  one  that  I  saw 
at  Notre-Dame,  in  the  rail-cars,  in  the  Boule 
vard  where — " 

"  You  are  utterly  mistaken,"  said  tLe 
lady;  "I  never  saw  jou  before." 

"  Have  you  not  been  here  all  these  years, 
appearing  and  disappearing  like  a  phan 
tom,  reminding  me  of  one  who  you  say  is 
dead  ?  " 

"Years!"  said  the  lady.  "I  don't  un 
derstand  you.  I  have  been  in  Paris  only 
three  months,  though  they  seem  like  many, 
many  years.  But  oh,  sir  !  you  look  like  one 
who  would  not  willingly  do  a  wrong.  Your 
face  cannot  belie  you.  Will  you  tell  me  what 
you  mean  by  asking  after  Clara  Mordaunt  ? 
— what  you  mean  by  calling  her  Clara  Ruth 
ven,  and  tell  me  what  she  is  to  you  ? " 

"  To  me  ?  0  Heavens  ! "  said  Kane  Ilell- 
rnuth,  "she  was  so  much  to  me  that  now  it 
is  better  not  to  talk  about  it.  But  did  you 
know  her  ?  Will  you  tell  me  how  it  is  that 
you  have  such  an  extraordinary  likeness  to 
her?  If  you  are  not  Clara  Mordaunt,  who 
are  you  ?  " 

"My  fright  must  have  been  a  mistake," 
said  the  lady,  looking  at  Kane  Hellmuth  with 
greater  interest,  "  and  I  can  only  hope  that  it 
has  been  so.  I  will  tell  you  who  I  am,  for 
oh,  sir,  I  think  I  may  trust  you.  This  Clara 
Mordaunt  that  you  speak  of  was  my  own  sis 
ter,  and  my  name  is  Inez  Mordaunt." 

"  Her  sister  !  Inez  Mordaunt !  "  cried  Kane 
Hellmuth,  in  amazement.  "Why,  she  said 
that  her  sister  Inez  was  dead  !" 

The  lady  stared  at  him. 

"Dead?  Did  she  say  that?  Then  she 
must  have  been  deceived,  like  me>  all  her 
life.  For  I,  too,  lived  a  life  that  was  all  sur 
rounded  by  deceit,  and  it  was  only  an  acci 
dent  that  revealed  to  me  the  truth.  I  was 
brought  up  to  believe  that  my  name  was  Wy- 
verne,  and — " 

But  here  Kane  Hellmuth  interrupted 
her. 

"  Wyverne  !  "  he  cried.  "  Wyverne  ! 
[nez  Wyverne  !  Are  you  Inez  Wyverne  ? 
Oh,  Heavens  !  what  is.  the  meaning  of  all 
this? 

lie  stopped,  overwhelmed  by  a  rush  of 
emotion  consequent  upon  the  mention  of  thai 


AN    OPEN   QUESTION. 


Dame.  He  recalled  the  story  of  Blake,  and 
Blake's  love  for  this  girl,  who  had  thus  so 
strangely  come  across  his  way.  He  recalled 
his  conversation  with  Father  Magrath.  He 
had  heard  from  him  that  Inez  Wyverne  had 
been  left  penniless,  but  how  had  she  come 
here  ?  Why  did  she  take  the  name  of  Mor- 
daunt?  How  was  it  that  she  called  herself 
the  sister  of  Clara  Mordaunt,  his  wife  ?  Who 
was  the  other  Miss  Mordaunt  whom  he  had 
gone  to  London  to  see  ?  Was  she,  too,  a  sis 
ter  of  his  lost  Clara  ?  That  this  Inez  was 
her  sister  might  be  proved  by  her  extraor 
dinary  resemblance,  which  had  led  him  to 
identify  her  with  the  apparition ;  and  yet  it 
was  impossible  that  she  could  be  identical 
with  that  other  mysterious  one,  for  she  had 
disclaimed  it.  What  was  the  meaning  of 
this? 

Such  were  the  thoughts  of  Kane  Hellmuth 
as  he  stood  there  staring  at  this  lady  whom 
he  had  brought  here,  and  who,  whether  Inez 
Wyverne  or  Inez  Mordaunt,  was  equally 
inexplicable  in  that  bewilderment  of  his 
thoughts. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE    STORY    OF    INEZ. 

THE  presence  of  the  attendants  acted  as  a 
check  upon  Kane  Hellmuth,  and  he  was  quick 
to  perceive  that  this  was  neither  the  time  nor 
the  place  for  that  full  explanation  which  he 
wished  to  have.  There  was  much  to  be  said 
on  both  sides,  and  he  longed  to  hear  her 
story,  both  for  his  own  sake,  and  also  for  the 
sake  of  his  friend  to  whom  this  Inez  was  so 
dear.  Such  a  thing  would,  however,  have  to 
be  postponed  until  another  occasion. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  pouring  forth  that 
volley  of  questions  which  his  first  impulse 
prompted  him  to  do,  he  checked  himself,  and 
began  to  apologize  for  bringing  her  to  his  room, 
on  the  ground  that  it  was  an  utter  mistake 
which  would  have  to  be  explained  elsewhere 
He  informed  her  that  the  cab  was  still  wait 
ing,  and  would  take  her  to  her  lodgings  when 
ever  she  wished  it.  Inez  at  once  accepted 
the  offer  with  evident  gratitude ;  the  fear  tha 
Kane  Hellmuth  had  but  recently  inspired  wa 
all  gone,  and  she  seemed  to  regard  him  as  on< 
who  might  be  a  friend.  With  her  fear  mucl 
of  her  weakness  had  passed,  and  she  was  abl 
to  walk  to  the  cab  without  assistance. 


Kane  Hellmuth  accompanied  her,  and 
nez  seemed  to  acquiesce  in  his  offer  of  com- 
lanionship  with  evident  satisfaction.  As  the 
ab  drove  off,  nothing  was  said  for  a  few  min 
utes,  when  at  length  Kane  Hellmuth  burst 
orth  abruptly  with — 

"  All  this  is  the  most  astonishing  thing  to 
no  that  can  be  imagined.  W^hen  you  men- 
ioned  the  name  of  Wyverne  just  now,  I  at 
mce  recognized  you  as  one  of  whom  I  had 
leard  very  much  from  an  intimate  friend  of 
mine,  who  also,  I  think,  is  a  friend  of  yours — 
Dr.  Basil  Blake." 

"  Dr.  Basil  Blake ! "  exclaimed  Inez,  eager- 
y.  "  Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

She  spoke  eagerly  and  with  agitation,  and 
ler  whole  manner  showed  that  Bluke  was  not 
without  interest  in  her  eyes. 

"Basil  Blake,"  said  he,  "is  my  intimate 
friend.  On  his  return  from  Villeneuve,  he  in 
formed  me  of  what  occurred  there." 

Inez  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"  Are  you  his  friend  ?  Then,  perhaps,  he 
mentioned  your  name  to  me.  He  used  to  talk 
about  his  friend  Kane  Hellmuth." 

"  I  am  Kane  Hellmuth." 

At  this,  Inez  looked  at  him  more  earnestly 
than  ever,  and  her  face  was  overspread  with 
sudden  expression  of  inexpressible  relief. 

"  Oh,  how  glad  I  am ! "  she  said,  simply 
and  innocently.  "  Oh,  I  cannot  tell  you,  Mr. 
Hellmuth,  how  very,  very  glad  I  am.  Oh, 
how  fortunate  for  me  this  meeting  is  !  You 
cannot  imagine  what  I  have  suffered.  This 
very  day  I  have  been  in  the  darkest  despair. 
Oh,  how  glad,  how  glad  I  am ! — And  is  Dr. 
Blake  here  too  ?  " 

"  Well,  no— not  just  now,"  said  Kane  Hell 
muth,  with  some  hesitation.  "  He  left  here 
a  while  ago  for  the  south,  on  business." 

"  Oh,  how  glad  I  am ! "  said  Inez  again, 
speaking  half  to  herself,  and  in  a  tone  of  such 
innocent  and  unfeigned  joy  that  Kane  Hell 
muth  felt  touched  to  the  heart ;  and  it  seemed 
to  suggest  to  him  long  and  severe  suffering 
on  her  part,  out  of  which  she  now  saw  some 
means  of  escape  by  his  assistance. 

This  assistance  he  hastened  to  promise 
her,  and  not  long  after  they  reached  their  des 
tination.  The  lodgings  of  Inez  were  not  very 
far  from  the  place  where  he  had  first  seen 
her,  and  were  of  a  kind  that  seemed  suitable 
to  genteel  poverty.  The  room  into  which  he 
followed  her  seemed  like  a  general  parlor, 
and  formed  one  of  a  suite  on  the  second 


THE   STORY   OF  INEZ. 


125 


floor,  hired,  as  she  informed  him,  by  the  lady 
with  whom  she  was  lodging. 

Situated  as  these  two  were  with  regard  to 
one  another,  there  \vas  very  much  to  be  aske( 
and  to  be  answered  on  both  sides;  nor  was 
it  until  several  interviews  that  each  became 
acquainted  with  the  position  of  the  other 
The  position  of  Inez  was  one  of  so  painful  a 
character,  that  she  was  eager  to  tell  it  all  to 
Kane  Hellmuth,  so  as  to  get  his  assistance 
and  he  on  his  part  was  equally  anxious  to  tel 
her  his  story,  partly  to  explain  his  late  con 
duct,  and  partly  from  the  hope  that  she  mi-.-ht 
give  him  seme  information  about  the  myste 
rious  apparition  which  had  so  troubled  him. 
As  far  as  that  was  concerned,  however,  Inez 
was  not  able  to  throw  any  light  on  it  what 
ever,  and  indeed  she  knew  less  of  that  "  Clara 
Mordaunt,"  whom  she  considered  her  sister, 
than  Kane  Hellmuth  himself.     There  was  no 
way  in  which  Inez  could  account  for  the  ap 
parition.     If  it  was  ever  explained,  the  expla 
nation  would  have  to  be  made  in  some  way 
quite  irrespective  of  her ;  and  her  story  showed 
that  she  could  not  have  been  in  Paris  at  all 
while  those  mysterious  visitations  were  oc 
curring. 

Her  own  story,  however,  was  one  of  such 
an  extraordinary  character,  that  it  at  once 
aroused  his  warmest  sympathies,  and  occu 
pied  most  of  his  thoughts.  It  was  not  all 
told  at  once,  but  in  the  course  of  various  in 
terviews  ;  and,  without  reporting  any  conver 
sation  verbatim,  it  may  be  best  to  narrate  that 
story  now : 

When  Inez  landed  in  France,  she  took 
the  first  train  for  Paris,  and  for  some  time 
had  no  other  thought  than  to  hurry  on  with 
out  delay,  so  as  to  see  her  father  as  soon  as 
possible.  At  length  she  began  to  feel  troub 
led  about  the  meeting  that  was  before  her, 
and  wondered  how,  in  the  confusion  of  a  rail 
way-station,  she  could  recognize  her  father's 
messengers,  or  be  recognized  by  them.  Her 
anxiety  to  reach  her  father  increased  her  anx 
iety  in  this  respect,  and  at  length  she  had  to 
tell  her  troubles  to  her  maid  Saunders.  She 
herself  could  not  speak  French  very  well,  but 
Saunders  could  speak  it  as  well  as  English, 
and  no  sooner  had  she  learned  the  anxiety  of 
her  mistress,  than  she  hastened  to  soothe 
her.  She  promised  to  speak  to  the  guard,  and 
did  so  to  such  good  purpose  that  this  func 
tionary  came  in  person  to  Inez,  and  with  many 
gesticulations  assured  her  that  he  himself 
9 


would  look  out  for  her  friends,  and  see  that 
they  should  find  her.  Reassured  by  this, 
Inez  got  the  bettor  of  her  anxiety  in  this  re 
spect,  and  at  length  reached  Paris. 

As  the  train  stopped,  Inez  felt  a  strange 
sense  of  desolation  in  her  heart.  She  was 
weak,  too,  and  weary,  for  she  had  travelled 
all  night,  and  it  was  a  raw,  gray,  dismal 
morning.  She  looked  out  into  the  station- 
house,  and  saw  the  twinkling  lights,  and  the 
crowd  moving  to  and  fro.  The  consciousness 
that  she  was  in  a  foreign  country,  without  a 
home,  came  to  her  with  oppressive  power;  nor 
could  even  the  thought  of  her  father,  with 
which  she  tried  to  console  herself,  enable  her 
to  overmaster  this  sense  of  loneliness.  There 
was  also  a  time  of  waiting  which  seemed  un 
usually  long.  She  had  anticipated  an  earnest 
welcome,  but  she  was  allowed  to  wait  with 
out  any,  and  thus  at  the  very  outset  her  heart 
sank,  and  she  felt  herself  a  prey  to  strange, 
dark  fears  and  forebodings. 

At  length,  Saunders    directed  her  atten 
tion  to  an  advancing  figure.     This  one  was 
preceded  by  the  guard,  and  looked  as  though 
he  might  be  the  messenger  sent  to  receive 
her.     As  he  drew  near,  Inez  could  see  his 
face  quite   plainly;    for  it  was  turned   tow 
ard  the  cars,  over  which  his  eyes  wandered 
as  though  in  search  of  some  one.     The  ap 
proach   of  this  messenger  might  at  another 
time  have  quelled  her  rising  fears;  but  the 
aspect  of  this  man  had  in  it  something  which 
[nez  did  not  find  at  all  reassuring;  and  the 
face  on  which  she  expected  to  see  an  air  of 
respectful,  if  not  eager,  welcome,  had  in  it 
now  nothing  which  was  not  repellent.     It  was 
a  commonplace  face — a  coarse  and  vulgar  face 
— not  the  face  of  a  man  who  might  be  a  friend 
of  Bernal  Mordaunt.    It  did  not  seem  bad  or 
vicious ;  it  was  simply  coarse  and  commonplace. 
Nor  was  the  man  a  servant  or  a  footman,  for 
he  was  dressed  as  a  priest,  and  looked  like 
one  who  might  claim  the  right  to  associate 
with  Bernal  Mordaunt  on  equal  terms.     But, 
though  his  garb  was  clerical,  there  was  noth 
ing  of  the  priest  either  in  his  face,  or  atti 
tude,  or  manner ;  and  the  cloth  had  in  this  in 
stance  failed  most  completely  to  contribute 
its  usual  professional  air  to  the  wearer.    Such, 
then,  was  the  man  who  came  here  to  receive 
Inez. 

Saunders  had  already  risen,  and  went  out 
side  to  speak  to  the  priest.  Inez  followed 
shortly  after.  The  priest  introduced  himself 


126 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


as  Pere  Gounod,  and  spoke  a  few  words  of 
conventional  welcome.     Inez  was  not   suffi 
ciently  familiar  with  French  to  judge  whether 
he  was  a  man  of  education  or  not;  but  there 
was  a  certain  clumsiness  in  his  manner,  and 
coarseness    of  intonation,  which  made  her 
think  that  he  could  not  be ;  yet  how  could 
she  judge  ?     Still,  this  was  a  thing  of  no  mo 
ment,  and  her  thoughts  soon  reverted  to  the 
one  uppermost  idea  of  her  mind— her  father  ; 
and  all  the  deep  anxiety  which  she  felt  was 
manifest  in  her  voice  as  she  asked  after  him. 
The  priest  looked  at  her  with  a  quick, 
furtive  glance,  and  then  looked  away. 
"  He  is  very  low,"  said  he,  slowly. 
There  was  something  in  his  face  which 
frightened  Inez.     She  would  have  asked  more, 
but  could  not.     She  was  afraid  of  hearing  the 
worst.     The  priest  said  no  more,  but  turned, 
and,  with  a  silent  gesture,  led  the  way  to  the 
carriage.     Inez  followed.     Saunders  also  fol 
lowed.     On  reaching  the  carriage,  Inez  saw 
that  it  was  a  close  cab.     The  priest  held 
the  door  open.     She  got  in,  and  was  followed 
by  Saunders.     The  priest  then  went  to  see 
about   the    luggage,  and,  after    a   short  ab 
sence,  returned.     He   then  got  on   the  box 
with  the  driver. 

After  about  half  an  hour's  drive,  the  cab 
stopped.  On  getting  out,  Inez  found  herself 
in  front  of  a  large  and  gloomy  edifice.  She 
followed  the  priest,  who  led  the  way  in  through 
a  small  door,  and  up  a  flight  of  steps,  and 
along  a  gallery  which  looked  out  into  a  court 
yard.  He  then  opened  a  door  which  led  into 
a  room.  It  was  meagrely  furnished,  the  floor 
was  tiled,  and  there  was  a  depressing  gloom 
about  it  which  deepened  the  melancholy  de 
spondency  that  Inez  had  all  along  experi 
enced. 

The  priest  motioned  toward  a  sofa,  anc 
asked  Inez  to  sit  down. 

"  But  I  wish  to  see  papa,"  said  she,  anx 
iously. 

"I  will  go  and  see,"  said  the  priest. 
"  You  must  wait." 

Saying  this,  he  left  the  room.  This 
strange  proceeding  seemed  unaccountable  to 
Inez,  and  only  increased  her  fears.  He  was 
not  long  gone ;  but  the  time  of  his  absence 
seemed  long  indeed  to  her.  She  did  not  sit 
down,  but  stood,  where  he  had  left  her,  mo 
tionless  and  terrified,  and  there  he  found  her 
on  his  return. 

"  Will  you  not  sit  down  ? "  he  asked. 


"  But  I  want  to  see  papa,"  said  Inez. 
"One   moment,"    said  the  priest.     "Sit 
down — I  have  something  to  say." 

At  this  strange  delay  Inez  grew  more  agi 
tated  than  ever.  The  priest  seated  himself. 
She  could  not  move.  She  stood  thus,  pale 
and  trembling,  and  looked  at  him  fixedly. 

"  I  have  something  to  say,"  repeated  the 
priest,  "  and  I  am  very  sorry  to  have  to  say 
it." 

He  paused,  and  leaned  his  elbow  on  his 
knee,  bending  forward  as  he  did  so,  with  his 
eyes  on  the  floor.  Thus  Inez  no  longer  saw 
his  face,  but  only  the  top  of  his  head.  Now, 
in  moments  of  the  deepest  anxiety,  and  even 
anguish,  it  is  strange  how  often  the  attention 
is  attracted  by  even  trivial  circumstances.  It 
was  so  with  Inez  at  this  time.  Full  of  an 
guish,  with  her  soul  racked  by  suspense,  a 
prey  to  the  gloomiest  forebodings,  waiting 
with  something  like  despair  the  communica 
tion  of  the  priest,  her  eyes,  as  they  rested 
upon  him,  noticed  this  one  thing  in  the  midst 
of  all  her  agitation  and  her  despair,  and  that 
was  that  this  priest  had  no  tonsure.  His  hair 
was  a  thick,  bushy  mass  all  over  his  head  ; 
and  the  characteristic  mark  of  his  sacred  of 
fice  was  altogether  wanting.  She  noticed 
this,  and  it  was  with  an  additional  shock  that 
she  did  so.  Yet  it  was  not  till  afterward  that 
she  learned  to  place  any  stress  on  this  one 
fact,  and  see  it  in  its  full  significance.  At 
that  time  the  shock  passed  away,  and  yielded 
to  her  uncontrollable  anxiety  about  her  fa 
ther. 

"  Why  don't  you  say  what  you  have  to 
say  ?  "  cried  Inez  at  length.  "  I  want  to  see 
papa." 

The  priest  raised  his  head. 
"I  wish,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice,  and 
speaking  very  slowly,  "  to  break  it  as  gently 
as  possible." 

Every  one  of  these  words  was  terrible  to 
Inez.  To  such  a  saying  as  this,  following  af 
ter  such  strange  actions,  there  could  be  but 
one  meaning,  and  that  one  meaning  must  be 
the  worst.  Yet,  so  great  was  her  terror  at 
hearing  this,  that  she  dared  not  ask  another 
question.  She  stood  as  before,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  him,  while  he  kept  his  eyes  averted. 
"I  did  not  tell  you  before,"  eaid  the 
priest.  "  I  wished  to  prepare  you.  I  wished 
to  do  it  gradually.  I  must  prepare  you  for 
the  worst— the  very  worst." 
He  paused. 


THE   STORY   OF  INEZ. 


127 


Inez  stared  at  him. 

"  He— is — dead !  "  she  faltered,  in  a  scarce 
audible  voice. 

The  priest  looked  at  her  with  a  significant 
glance,  and  in  silence. 

"  When  ?  "  asked  Inez,  speaking  with  a 
great  effort,  but  in  a  faint  voice. 

"  Three  days  ago,"  said  the  priest. 
Inez  gave  a  low  moan,  and  staggered  tow 
ard  the  sofa.     Saunders  sprang  up  and  as 
sisted  her.     She  sank   down  upon  it,  and, 
burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  remained  si 
lent  and  motionless,  yet  an  occasional  shud 
der  showed  the  suffering  of  her  mind.     Xor 
•was  this  suffering  without  a  cause.     True,  it 
was  not  like  losing  a  father  whose  love  she  had 
always  known;  but  still,  ever  since  the  dis 
covery  of  the  portraits,  she  had  thought  much 
of  Bernal  Mordauut,  and  had  conceived  for 
him  all  a  daughter's  feelings.     She  had  re 
called  many  of  the   reminiscences   of  early 
childhood.     Above  all,  his  last  letter  to  her 
had  thrown  around  these  feelings  additional 
strength  and  tenderness.     During  her  jour 
ney  these  feelings  had  increased,  and  all  her 
life  and  all  her  hope  seemed  to  refer  to  the 
meeting  with  him  which   she  was    seeking. 
Now,  in  an  instant,  all  this  tender  love  was 
blighted,  and  all  this  eager  hope  made  for 
ever  vain.     The  blow  was  a  severe  one,  and 
Inez  well  nigh  sank  under  it. 

The  priest  looked  at  her  with  close  obser 
vation,  but  with  no  particular  sympathy.  Thus 
far  he  had  been  somewhat  embarrassed  while 
subject  to  the  searching  gaze  of  Inez.  Now, 
when  that  gaze  was  removed,  and  her  head 
buried  in  her  hands,  he  was  able  to  speak 
with  freedom. 

"  He  died  three  days  ago,"  said  the  priest, 
speaking  somewhat  less  slowly  than  before, 
and  in  what  may  be  described  as  a  wary  and 
vigilant  manner ;  watching  Inez  all  the  while 
most  attentively — "  three  days  ago.  He  wrote 
a  long  letter— a  very  long  letter— too  long  a 
letter,  indeed — to  you,  asking  you  to  come 
here.  Well,  after  that  he  fainted.  It  was  an 
hour  before  he  revived.  Then  we  knew — and 
he  knew,  too — that  he  was— dying!  But 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done,  for  he  was  be 
yond  hope.  .  .  .  Well,"  continued  the  priest, 
after  a  pause,  in  which  his  eyes  never  re 
moved  themselves  from  Inez,  who  still  re 
mained  with  her  head  bowed  down  and  buried 
in  her  hands — "well,  then  the  poor  man 
called  for  writing-materials  again.  We  sup 


plied  him  with  them.  We  raised  him  upon 
his  bed,  so  that  he  might  be  in  a  position  to 
write.  He  took  the  pen,  and  at  first  could 
hardly  hold  it.  But  at  length  he  made  a 
great  effort,  and  wrote  about  a  page.  That 
was  all  that  he  was  able  to  do,  and,  in  my 
opinion,  it  was  just  one  page  too  much  ;  but 
we  had  to  indulge  him,  for  he  was  so  eager 
about  it — and  what  can  you  do  with  a  dying 
man?  Well,  that  was  too  much.  He  fell 
back  exhausted,  and  never  spoke  one  word 
more.  In  two  hours  all  was  over,  and  he  had 
barely  life  and  sense  enough  to  receive  the 
viaticum.  That  was  three  days  ago.  You  re 
ceived  his  letter,  and  waited  till  you  could 
leave,  and  have  spent  this  third  day  in  travel 
ling  here.  This  brings  you  here  at  the  close 
of  the  third  day.  It  is  a  pity  that  you  had 
not  came  before,  for  he  loved  you  dearly. 
But  still  his  last  thoughts  were  of  you,  and 
his  lust  words,  too,  for  the  letter  that  he 
wrote  was  for  you." 

At  this  Inez  started  up. 
"  For  me  !  "  she  exclaimed.     "  Is  there — 
did  he  leave  any  message  for  me  ?  " 

"  The  letter  that  I  have  been  telling  you 
about  was  for  YOU." 

"  Have  you  got  it  ?  "  cried  Inez,  eagerly. 
"  It  is  here — for  you — if  you  wish  to  see 
it,"  said  the  priest. 

"  Oh,   let    me   have  it — let  me  see  it !  " 
said  Inez,  in  a  tone  of  mournful  entreaty. 

"  You  shall  see  it,  of  course,"   said  the 
priest.     "It  is  for  you,  and  it  is  waiting  for 
you.     It  is  a  pity  that  you  have  not  come  in 
time  for  something  better  than  a  letter.     The 
poor  Abbe  Mordaunt  would  have  been  greatly 
cheered.     We  urged  him  to  send  for  you  be- 
fore,  but  he  was  full  of  hope  that  he  would 
recover  and  be  able  to  go  to  you.     He  was  un 
willing  to  put  you  to  the  trouble  of  a  journey. 
He  never  knew  how  ill  he  was  till  the  last, 
and  then  it  was  too  late.     He  came  home  from 
his  mission  with  broken  health.     He  allowed 
himself  no  rest.     An  affair  at  Villeneuve  agi- 
tated  him  greatly,  and  preyed  on  his  mind. 
It  was  something   that  occurred  there,  and 
other  things  that  he  heard  of  after  his  ar 
rival  here.     He  sank  quite  rapidly,  poor  man  ! 
And  all  the  time  he  persisted  in  the  hope  that 
he  would  recover.     At  last  the  doctor  told 
him   the  truth,  and  then  he  wrote  for  you. 
But  it  was   too  late.     The  effort  of  writing 
hastened  the  end,  and  so,  as  I  said,  he  didnoi 
live  out  that  day.     Still  he  left  his  last  in- 


128 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


Btruetions  for  you,  and  I  have  kept  that  letter 
to  be  given  into  your  own  hands.  And  here  it 
is.  I  took  it  from  his  own  hands,  and  put  it 
in  this  envelop,  and  wrote  your  name  on  it." 
Saying  this,  the  priest  drew  forth  a  letter 
from  his  pocket  and  handed  it  to  Inez.  She 
took  it  with  a  quick,  nervous,  eager  grasp. 
The  eavelop  bore  the  address  in  a  strange 
hand,  simply — 

"  Inez  Mordaunt" 

This  the  priest  had  explained.  But  this 
she  did  not  notice.  All  her  thoughts  were 
turned  to  the  letter  itself— the  last  words  of 
her  father,  now  lost  forever — her  father, 
found  so  strangely,  lost  so  suddenly.  With  a 
trembling  hand  she  tore  open  the  envelop, 
and  the  last  words  of  that  father  lay  before 
her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

IN  PRISON. 

INEZ  tore  open  the  letter  and  read  the  fol 
lowing  : 

"  MY  DEAREST  DAUGHTER  :  I  have  just  writ 
ten  to  you  to  come  to  me.  It  is  too  late.  I 
am  dying.  I  should  have  gone  on  to  you.  I 
have  scarcely  strength  enough  left  to  write 
this.  There  are  many  things  which  I  wish  to 
explain.  But  this  explanation  cannot  now 
be  given  by  me.  My  beloved  child,  I  leave 
you,  and  forever,  but  I  do  not  leave  you  friend 
less.  I  have  one  good  and  tried  friend — the 
friend  of  a  life ;  and,  though  I  must  leave 
you,  I  am  able  to  console  myself  with  the 
thought  that  you  will  be  cared  for.  My  dear 
friend,  true  and  tried,  Kevin  Magrath,  I  ap 
point  as  your  guardian.  He  will  be  to  you, 
my  daughter,  another  guardian.  He  will  love 
the  child  of  his  friend  as  his  own  child. 
Trust  in  him.  Love  him  as  your  father.  He 
will  do  for  you  all  that  I  could  have  done. 
He  will  tell  you  all  about  me,  and  about  that 
past  which  has  been  so  dark  to  you.  You 
•will  have  a  great  grief,  but  do  not  give  way 
to  it,  my  child.  Trust  in  Heaven  and  in  my 
friend  Kevin  Magrath — father  to  fatherless — 
go  long  journey — never  again  which — I  have 
— formerly — in  vain — mother — -just  the — last 
words — not  at  all — mission — broken — faint — 
wishes  —  love— Kevin — Kevin  Magrath — for 
ever — father — " 


There  was  no  signature.  The  letter  ended 
with  several  lines  of  undecipherable  writing, 
in  which  a  few  words  were  here  and  there 
discernible  —  words  without  connection  and 
without  meaning. 

Inez  read  it  all  over  many  times,  and  waa 
troubled  in  soul.  It  was  not  what  she  had 
expected.  It  was  a  letter  that  excited  dark 
fears  and  anxieties.  The  circumstantial  ac 
count  which  the  priest  had  given  her  did  not 
at  all  reassure  her.  For  some  time  past  she 
had  been  living  in  an  atmosphere  of  mystery, 
and  had  learned  to  indulge  in  a  suspicious 
habit  of  mind  ;  and  so  it  was  that  this  letter 
added  vague  and  alarming  suspicions  to  the 
anxieties  which  it  caused. 

All  those  fears,  anxieties,  and  suspicions, 
derived  their  origin  from  one  name  mentioned 
there.  It  was  a  name  that  was  mentioned 
with  emphasis — the  name  of  a  man  that  she 
had  learned  to  regard  as  an  enemy— and  yet 
this  man  was  indicated  to  her  by  this  letter 
as  her  father's  true  and  tried  friend,  and 
urged  upon  her  trust  and  affection.  He  was 
to  be  her  guardian.  How  was  it  possible  for 
her  to  read  such  a  letter  as  this  without  the 
darkest  suspicions  ? 

For  the  present,  however,  these  gave  way 
to  a  yearning  desire  to  see,  if  possible,  all 
that  was  left  of  the  man  whom  she  had  re 
garded  as  her  father — her  father  discovered 
so  strangely,  yet  lost  so  suddenly.  Was  it 
too  late  for  that  ?  She  turned  once  more  to 
the  priest : 

"May  I  not  see  him?"  she  asked,  in  a 
tremulous  voice. 

"  See  him  ?  "  repeated  the  priest. 

"  Yes,"  said  Inez,  "  my  papa.  If  I  could 
only  see  him — one  last  look — " 

"See  him!"  repeated  the  priest,  in  a 
strange  tone — "  see  him  !  " 

He  hesitated  and  looked  away. 

"  If  I  only  could,"  said  Inez,  "  if  it  is  not 
too  late." 

"Too  late?"  said  the  priest,  shaking  his 
head.  "  Alas  !  it's  too  late — too  late.  You've 
said  it.  That's  what  it  is.  Too  late — yes,  too 
late — too  late." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Inez,  de 
spairingly.  "Can  I  not  have  at  least  the 
sad  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  as  he  ia 
now  ?  " 

The  priest  looked  at  her  with  kis  usual 
furtive  glance. 

"  But  he's  gone  ! "  said  he. 


IX   PRISON. 


129 


"Gone!"  repealed  Inez,  in  a  bewildered 
voice. 

"  Yes,  gone,"  said  the  priest. 
"  But  how  ?  "  said  Inez.     "  What  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  Buried ! "  said  the  priest,  in  a  solemn 
voice. 

"Buried!" 

Inez  repeated  the  word,  but  was  so  over 
whelmed  by  the  thought  that   she  did   no 
seem   to   know  what  it  meant.     "  Buried  ! ' 
she  said  again,  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  to  her 
self,  and,  as  she  said  this,  she  shrank  back 
with  a  frightened  look. 
Buried ! 

"It  was  three  days  ago  that  he  died,' 
said  the  priest.  "  He  was  buried  this  morn 
ing.  You  can  never  see  him  again." 

At  this  overwhelming  intelligence  Inez 
Stared  at  the  priest  with  an  expression  in  her 
face  that  seemed  like  horror.  Then  she  looked 
wildly  around.  Then  she  once  more  bowed 
her  head,  and  this  time  she  burst  into  a  torrent 
of  tears.  She  had  reached  the  lowest  point  in 
that  abyss  of  sorrow  which  she  had  been  de 
scending,  and  there  she  found  that  the  last 
faint  consolation  was  denied  her.  The  faith 
ful  Saunders  rushed  to  her  aid.  The  priest 
sat  motionless  watching  her.  But  to  Inez 
the  faithful  Saunders  and  the  priest  were 
both  alike  objects  of  indifference,  for  all  her 
thoughts  were  now  turned  toward  the  sharp 
ness  of  this  sudden  bereavement  and  the  des 
olation  of  her  present  state. 

Tor  a  long  time  Inez  remained  in  that 
condition,  overwhelmed  by  grief  and  racked 
by  convulsive  sobs  that  shook  her  frame. 
The  priest  watched  her  still  with  that  vigi 
lant  gaze  which  he  directed  toward  her  when 
ever  her  eyes  were  not  turned  toward  him. 
Sometimes  he  looked  toward  the  faithful 
Saunders,  and  the  eyes  of  the  faithful  Saunders 
met  his ;  and,  as  the  eyes  of  the  good  priest 
and  of  the  faithful  Saunders  met,  there  seemed 
to  be  some  kin<l  of  intelligence  between  them. 
But,  if  there  was  any  such  intelligence,  it  sat 
isfied  itself  just  then  with  a  silent  glance, 
and  deferred  any  expression  in  words  until  a 
more  convenient  opportunity. 

The  blow  which  had  thus  fallen  upon  Inez 
was  OQC  from  which  she  could  not  readily  re 
cover.  Rousing  herself  at  length  from  her 
first  prostration,  her  only  desire  was  for  se 
clusion,  where  she  might  give  herself  up  more 
entirely  to  her  gloomy  thoughts.  The  faith 


ful  Saunders  accompanied  her  to  the  place, 
which  was  pointed  out  to  them  by  an  old 
woman  whom  the  priest  sent,  and  who  ap 
peared  to  be  a  combination  of  char-woman, 
charaber-maid,  and  lady's-maid.  The  room 
to  which  Inez  was  thus  shown  had  a  greater 
air  of  comfort  than  the  other,  yet  still  it  was 
furnished  in  a  scanty  manner,  and  the  tiled 
floor,  with  one  or  two  small  rugs  here  and  there, 
had  a  cheerless  air.  Here  Inez  found  her 
luggage,  and  the  faithful  Saunders  proceeded 
to  open  her  trunks  and  arrange  her  things. 
But  Inez  paid  no  attention  to  her.  She  flung 
herself  upon  a  couch,  and  the  faithful  Saun 
ders,  finding  that  she  was  not  needed,  finished 
her  task,  and  silently  withdrew. 

Inez  ate  nothing  that  day,  and  slept  none 
on  the  following  night.  In  truth,  her  posi 
tion  was  one  which  might  have  seemed  gloomy 
indeed,  even  to  a  more  sanguine  temper. 
There  was  about  it  a  dreadful  sense  of  deso 
lation,  from  which  she  could  not  escape.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  lost  her  father, 
her  home,  her  country,  and  every  friend  that 
she  ever  had.  In  her  father's  last  letter  she 
had  read  that  which  seemed  to  her  to  put  a 
climax  upon  all  her  woes.  Before  that  she 
had  been  simply  friendless  and  in  exile,  but 
now  she  found  herself  handed  over  to  the 
guardianship  of  one  of  whom  she  bad  learned 
to  think  with  abhorrence.  She  could  not 
forget  the  letter  which  had  struck  down  Hen- 
nigar  Wyverne  at  Villeneuve,  and  that  this 
letter  had  been  written  by  Kevin  Magrath. 

For  several  days  she  gave  herself  up 
completely  to  deep  despondency ;  and,  so 
strongly  did  it  prey  upon  her  spirits,  that 
at  length  she  became  quite  ill.  In  this  con 
dition  she  remained  for  several  weeks,  and 
the  profound  dejection  into  which  she  had 
fallen  made  her  completely  indifferent  about 
ber  recovery.  During  this  time  the  faithful 
Saunders  nursed  her.  At  length  her  youth 
and  vigorous  constitution  triumphed  over  her 
llness,  and  the  lapse  of  time  familiarized  her 
miud  so  much  to  her  new  position  that,  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  things,  it  began  to  ap- 
)ear  less  intolerable.  Soon  she  grew  stronger, 
md  the  buoyancy  of  her  spirits  led  her  to 
ndulge  rather  in  hopes  for  the  best.  At 
ength  she  was  able  to  go  out  of  her  room, 
and  walk  up  and  down  the  apartments  and 
ut  into  the  gallery. 

The  house  was  old  and  gloomy.     There 
was  a  small  court-yard  enclosed  by  its  walls. 


130 


AX  OPEN  QUESTION. 


On  the  side  where  she  lived  was  an  open  gal 
lery,  from  which  her  suite  of  rooms  opened. 
No  one  else  seemed  to  be  living  in  the  house 
except  the  priest  and  the  old  woman,  with 
herself  and  the  faithful  Saunders.  This  last 
personage  was  as  devoted  as  ever.  Of  the 
priest  she  saw  but  little,  and  of  the  old  wom 
an  still  less.  She  was  thus  left  very  much  to 
herself,  nor  did  the  solitude  seem  unpleasant. 
On  the  contrary,  it  was  rather  congenial  to 
that  pensive  melancholy  which  had  set  in 
after  the  first  outburst  of  grief  and  despair. 

At  length,  one  day,  while  thinking  over  her 
lonely  condition,  she  reflected  that  there  was 
one  friend  of  hers  in  Paris  who  might  be  glad 
to  know  that  she  was  here.  This  was  Dr. 
Blake,  whose  place  in  her  regards  had  not 
grown  less  prominent,  in  spite  of  the  mournful 
events  of  the  time  that  had  elapsed  since  she 
left  Villeneuve.  It  came  to  her  like  a  very 
pleasant  thought,  and  the  idea  occurred  that, 
if  she. should  go  out,  it  might  not  be  impos 
sible  to  see  him  somewhere,  or  be  seen  by 
him.  Her  loneliness  made  this  one  friend 
seem  now  more  valuable  than  he  had  seemed 
before;  and  she  had  no  sooner  thought  of 
this  than  she  at  once  sought  to  put  it  into 
execution.  Accordingly,  she  dressed  herself 
for  a  walk,  and  was  about  to  go  out  alone, 
when  Saunders  respectfully  interfered,  and 
implored  her  not  to  do  so.  To  the  wondering 
inquiry  of  Inez,  "  Why  not  ?  "  the  faithful 
Saunders  pleaded  her  weakness,  and  the  dan 
gers  of  the  Paris  streets.  Finally,  Inez  con 
sented  to  take  a  drive  instead  of  a  walk. 

The  carriage  which  took  her  out  was  not 
the  most  cheerful  kind  of  a  one.  .It  was  the 
same  close  cab  which  had  brought  her  from 
the  railway-station.  The  faithful  Saunders 
went  with  her,  though  Inez  at  first  seemed 
rather  inclined  to  go  alone.  But  this  seemed 
so  to  wound  the  affectionate  heart  of  the 
faithful  one  that  Inez  good-naturedly  con 
sented  to  let  her  go. 

The  drive  did  not  result  in  any  thing.  On 
the  whole,  Inez  felt  very  much  disappointed 
in  Paris.  She  had  heard  so  much  about  its 
splendor  that  she  had  expected  to  find  some 
thing  very  different.  She  mentioned  severa 
places  whose  names  were  familiar,  to  which 
she  wished  to  be  driven,  but,  on  seeing  them 
she  found  that  they  did  not  come  up  to  her 
expectations.  She  was  driven  through  a 
number  of  narrow  streets,  finally  along  a 
wide  but  bare-looking  place,  then  into  th 


narrow  streets  again  ;  then  out  into  the  wide 
)lace,  until  she  was  thoroughly  wearied,  and 
did  not  care  to  continue  her  drive  any  longer. 

After  this  she  went  out  on  almost  every 
ine  day,  and  with  the  same  result.  Saunders 
always  went  with  her ;  she  always  saw  the 
same  commonplace  streets  ;  she  never  saw 
any  one  who  looked  like  Dr.  Blake. 

And  this  was  Paris ! 

She  could  not  help  feeling  amazed  at  the 
reputation  of  so  mean  a  city  ! 

Once  or  twice  she  thought  of  shopping. 
But  from  this  she  was  prevented  by  a  circum 
stance  which  was  at  once  paltry  and  humiliat- 
g — she  had  no  money.  The  letter  of  Bernal 
Mordaunt  had  told  her  not  to  bring  more 
than  was  needed  for  her  trip,  and  the  small 
amount  which  she  happened  to  have  in  her 
purse  had  been  exhausted.  Even  had  she 
needed  more,  she  would  not  have  known  at 
that  time  whom  to  ask  for  it.  She  could  not 
ask  Bessie.  3Ir.  Wyverne,  who  had  always 
before  supplied  her  liberally,  was  dead  ;  and 
she  did  not  know  any  one  else  to  whom  she 
could  apply.  For  this  cause  she  had  left  her 
home  thus  ill-supplied  with  money,  and  now 
she  felt,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  the  help 
lessness  of  poverty. 

It  was  this  poverty,  together  with  her 
loneliness  andfriendlessness,  that  brought  the 
questions  before  her,  over  and  over,  What 
was  she  to  do  ?  What  would  become  of  her  ? 
How  long  would  this  life  go  on  ?  She  her 
self  could  do  nothing,  and  did  not  know  how 
she  ever  could  do  any  thing.  The  world  of 
the  past  was  lost  forever  to  her. 

These  drives  at  length  became  tedious  to 
Inez.  She  did  not  like  to  be  always  accom 
panied  by  Saunders,  and  the  sense  of  restraint 
which  she  felt  in  the  close  cab  was  irksome. 
She  felt  strong  enough  to  go  alone  by  herself, 
and  one  day  resolved  to  do  so.  She  simply 
informed  the  faithful  Saunders  that  she  was 
going  out  for  a  short  walk,  and  wished  to  be 
alone.  Saunders  saw  by  her  manner  that  she 
was  resolved,  and  said  nothing,  but  meekly 
acquiesced.  Inez  was  soon  ready,  and  went 
out  into  the  gallery  on  her  way  down. 

At  the  end  of  the  gallery  was  a  door  which 
opened  into  a  stairway.  To  the  surprise  of 
Inez,  this  door  was  locked.  She  had  often 
before  noticed  that  it  was  closed,  but,  having 
not  had  any  reason  for  trying  it,  she  had 
never  known  that  it  was  locked  ;  and,  on  the 
occasion  of  her  drives,  it  had  always  been 


LIGHT   ON   THE   SITUATION. 


131 


open.      Now,   however,   she  was    vexed    to 
perceive  that  her  plan  for  going  out  alone 
was  attended  with  difficulties.      She  stood 
for    some    time    knocking,   but  to  no  pur 
pose  ;  and  at  length  concluded  that  it  must 
be  accidental,  or  rather  that  it  rose  from  an 
excess  of  precaution  on  the  part  of  the  stupid 
old  woman.     In  spite  of  this  simple  mode  of 
accounting  for  such  an  unpleasant  fact,  Inez 
felt  not  only  disappointed  but  also  troubled; 
and   a   vague  suspicion  arose  that   her  sur 
roundings  were  not  so  satisfactory  as  they 
might  be.     There  seemed  to  be  too  much 
surveillance.     Some  one  was  always  with  her. 
The  faithful  Saunders  was  a  trifle  too  faith 
ful.     Of  that  personage  she  knew  but  little. 
She  had  been  her  maid  for  not  over  three 
months,  and  Inez  had  never  thought  of 'her 
personal  peculiarities.     She  had  been  satis 
fied  with  the  faithful  performance  of  the  du 
ties  which  pertained  to  the  responsible  office 
of  Saunders,  and  had  never  had  occasion  to 
think  about  her  more  deeply.     And,  though 
she  tried  to  drive  away  the  thought  as  un 
generous,   she  could  not  help  fearing  that 
the  faithful  Saunders  might  be  watching  over 
her  from  other  motives  than  those  of  affec 
tionate  and  loyal  solicitude. 

Inez  waited  all  day  for  that  door  to  open, 
but  it  did  not.  She  sat  with  her  things  on. 
Saunders  prepared  lunch  at  the  usual  hour, 
but  Inez  was  too  indignant  to  touch  it.  At 
length,  at  about  six  in  the  evening,  the  old 
woman  came  up  with  dinner.  The  first  im 
pulse  of  Inez  was  to  give  her  a  sound  rating, 
but  this  was  repressed,  and  she  contented 
herself  with  telling  her  about  her  disappoint 
ment,  and  directing  her  to  have  the  door  left 
open  on  the  following  day.  At  this,  the  old 
woman  stared,  but  said  nothing. 

On  the  following  day,  however,  the  very 
same  thing  occurred,  and  Inez,  who  had  again 
dressed  herself  for  a  walk,  was  unable  to  go. 
This  time  she  could  not  restrain  herself. 

"  There's  something  about  this  that  I  do 
not  understand,"  said  she  to  Saunders  as  she 
returned  to  her  room.  "  Do  you  know  what 
it  means,  Saunders  ?  " 

"Oh,  no  indeed,  miss!"  said  Saunders; 
"  me  ?— the  idea  ! " 

"  Perhaps  you  can  get  the  door  open,  or 

make  them  hear  you,  Saunders ;  you  seem  to 

have  some  understanding  with  these  people." 

At  this  Saunders  rolled  up  her  eyes. 

"Me,  miss!     Me  an  understanding,  that 


never  set  eyes  on  them  before  in  all  my  born 
days,  and  only  follered  you  here  to  this  town 
because  you  was  wantin'  me,  and  homesick 
now  as  I  be  in  this  gloomy  den !  Why,  what 
ever  you  can  mean,  miss,  beggin'  your  par- 
don,  is  more'n  I  can  tell,  and  I  only  hope  you 
don't  see  any  thing  in  me  that's  underhand — 
for,  if  so,  I  maybe  better  go  away." 

At  this  Inez  was  startled.  To  lose  Saun 
ders  would  be  too  much.  She  had  spoken 
too  hastily.  Her  suspicions  were  wrong. 
She  hastened,  therefore,  to  smooth  over  the 
ruffled  feelings  of  the  faithful  one,  and  Saun 
ders  subsided  into  her  usual  calm. 

That  evening  at  dinner  the  priest  came  in. 
This  man  had  always  been  distasteful  to  Inez, 
but  now  was  all  the  more  so,  since  she  could 
not  understand  what  he  was  or  what  his  in 
tentions  were.  She  had  not  forgotten  that  he 
had  no  tonsure ;  she  did  not  believe  that  ho 
could  be  a  priest  at  all,  and  the  suspicion  that 
he  was  disguised  was  a  most  unpleasant  one. 
On  this  occasion  Inez  at  once  informed  him 
about  the  door,  and  told  him  that  it  must  not 
occur  again.  Her  tone  was  somewhat  haughty, 
and  she  unconsciously  adopted  an  air  of  com 
mand  in  addressing  him. 

The  priest  looked  down,  avoiding  her  eyes 
as  usual. 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  said  he ;  "  you  have 
gone  out  whenever  you  wished.  The  door  is 
kept  locked— on  account  of  thieves — as  there 
are  so  few  servants— and  the  woman  is  so  old 
and  stupid." 

"Very  well,"  said  Inez;  "I  wish  to  go 
out  to-morrow,  and  I  should  like  you  to  tell 
the  old  woman,  so  that  she  need  not  make 
any  more  of  those  stupid  mistakes." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

LIGHT     ON     THE     SITUATION. 

SAUNDERS  had  always  been  what  is  called 
a  "faithful  creature,"  and  Inez  had  thus  far 
found  her  quite  invaluable.  It  was  on  the 
morning  after  her  last  interview  with  Gou 
nod,  however,  that  Inez  made  the  discovery 
that  there  were  limits  to  the  fidelity  of  her 
maid.  On  that  morning  the  faithful  Saun 
ders  did  not  make  her  appearance ;  and  Inez, 
after  waiting  an  unusually  long  time,  con 
cluded  that  she  must  be  ill.  With  this  idea 


132 


AN    OPEN    QUESTION. 


she  went  to  see  after  her,  but,  on  going  to 
her  room,  found  that  no  one  was  there.  At 
this  she  felt  annoyed  ;  it  looked  like  neglect, 
and  she  went  immediately  to  the  parlor  in 
search  of  her  maid,  with  the  intention  of  ad 
ministering  a  pretty  sharp  rebuke.  Here, 
however,  there  were  no  signs  of  her ;  and  a 
little  further  search  showed  her  that  she  must 
have  gone  away.  A  sudden  suspicion  then 
darted  across  her  mind.  She  hurried  back  to 
the  maid's  room.  On  entering,  the  suspicion 
was  confirmed.  The  trunk  was  not  there. 
Saunders  must  have  left  her,  for  she  had 
taken  her  trunk. 

This  discovery  was  so  painful  that  at  first 
she  felt  quite  stupefied.  She  could  not  ima 
gine  how  Saunders  could  have  done  it,  or 
how  Gounod  could  have  allowed  it;  but,  for 
the  present,  her  mind  was  less  occupied  with 
speculations  about  the  mode  of  her  departure 
than  with  painful  efforts  to  imagine  the  cause 
of  it.  Saunders  had  always  been  so  profuse 
in  her  protestations  of  fidelity,  and  so  unre 
mitting  in  her  services,  that  this  sudden  de 
parture  seemed  to  give  the  lie  to  it  all.  It 
seemed  like  treachery,  and  the  ease  with 
which  she  had  gone  made  it  appear  as  though 
Gounod  had  connived  at  it. 

In  the  midst  of  these  thoughts  the  old 
woman  arrived,  and  began  her  ordinary  rou 
tine  of  duties,  which  consisted  in  laying  the 
breakfast  table  and  making  the  beds.  Inez 
did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  say  any  thing 
to  her,  but  waited  patiently  until  she  had  fin 
ished  her  task,  when  she  asked  her  to  tell 
Gounod  that  she  would  like  to  see  him.  In 
about  half  an  hour,  Gounod  came. 

To  her  story  about  the  sudden  departure 
of  the  maid,  Gounod  listened  respectfully,  and 
at  once  explained.  He  informed  Inez  that 
Saunders  told  him,  the  evening  before,  that 
she  had  received  sudden  intelligence  of  the 
dangerous  illness  of  her  mother,  and  would 
have  to  go  and  see  her  at  once ;  and  that  he 
had  got  a  cab,  and  taken  her  to  the  railway- 
station.  The  maid,  he  added,  had  told  him 
that  she  did  not  like  to  tell  her  mistress 
about  it ;  that  she  felt  very  badly  at  leaving 
her  under  such  circumstances,  and  requested 
Gounod  to  make  all  necessary  explanations. 
Finally,  Gounod  offered  to  procure  her  an 
other  maid,  either  a  French  or  an  English 
one,  whichever  she  preferred. 

Inez  thanked  him,  but  replied  that  for  the 
present  she  did  not  feel  inclined  to  have  a 


maid ;  and,  after  a  few  more  words,  Gounod 
withdrew. 

Gounod's  explanation  had  not  altogether 
satisfied  Inez.  It  was  certainly  a  very  natu 
ral  and  a  very  probable  cause  for  the  de 
parture  of  Saunders  ;  but  still  Inez  could  not 
help  thinking  that  there  was  something  else 
at  the  bottom  of  this.  Either  Saunders  might 
have  grown  weary  of  her  lonely  life,  or  else, 
as  she  had  thought  before,  she  might  be  in 
some  mysterious  league  with  Gounod.  The 
peculiar  conduct  of  that  personage  had  al 
ready  seemed  suspicious,  and  now  it  seemed 
still  more  so. 

After  all,  however,  in  spite  of  a  certain 
degree  of  inconvenience  which  resulted  from 
it,  Inez  was  not  altogether  sorry  to  be  with- 
out  a  maid.  She  felt  somewhat  vexed  at  the 
manner  in  which  Saunders  had  left  her,  and 
there  were  circumstances  connected  with  her 
departure  which  excited  vague  suspicions  in 
her  mind ;  yet,  on  the  whole,  she  was  not  par 
ticularly  distressed  about  it.  The  f;ict  is,  the 
constant  attendance  of  Saunders  during  the 
drives  had  grown  to  be  excessively  irksome. 
Her  plea  had  been  fidelity ;  but  Inez  had  be 
gun  to  suspect  that  it  might  be,  at  best,  offi- 
ciousness,  and  even  something  worse.  At 
any  rate,  it  had  grown  to  be  so  unpleasant 
that  Inez  had  about  resolved  not  to  go  out 
again  until  she  could  go  alone.  The  de 
parture  of  Saunders  seemed  to  leave  her  free. 
to  do  this. 

Accordingly,  to  prevent  a  recurrence  of 
that  mistake  which  had  prevented  her  from 
going  out  the  last  time  that  she  had  tried,  she 
sent  for  Gounod  in  the  following  morning. 
He  came  in  a  short  time. 

"  I  wish  to  go  out  to-day,  at  noon,"  said 
Inez;  "and  I  want  you  to  leave  the  key  of 
that  door  with  me,  or,  at  least,  to  leave  it 
open,  so  that  I  may  not  be  prevented  again 
by  the  stupidity  of  that  old  woman." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Gounod.  "  At  what 
time  shall  I  have  the  cab  ready  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  want  the  cab,"  said  Inez.  "  I 
wish  to  go  alone." 

"  Alone ! "  exclaimed  Gounod,  in  sur 
prise.  "  You  must,  of  course,  have  some 
attendant." 

"  No,"  said  Inez  ;  "  that  is  the  very  thing 
that  I  do  not  wish  to  have.  I  wish  to  go 
alone." 

"Alone!  But,  Heavens!  that  is  impos 
sible.  Why,  you  would  be  utterly  lost.  Paris 


LIGHT   ON   THE   SITUATION. 


133 


is  a  labyrinth.    You  never  were  here  before 
You  could  never  find  your  way  back." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Inez.  "I  shall  tak 
the  address  of  the  house,  and,  if  I  lose  my 
way,  I  can  come  back  in  a  cab." 

"But,  mademoiselle,  you  do  not  know  the 
danger  here  in  Paris  to  a  young  girl,  a  slran 
ger,  unattended.  You  do  not  know,  or  you 
would  not  ask  this.  It  is  impossible.  Some 
one  must  accompany  you.  Here  no  young 
girl  ever  ventures  out  into  the  streets  withoul 
her  chaperon" 

At  these  objections  Inez  felt  irritated  and 
suspicious.  There  might  be  greater  restraint 
over  girls  in  France  than  in  England  ;  but  to 
her  the  idea  of  danger  in  the  streets  of  Paris, 
in  broad  day,  seemed  preposterous.  Yet  she 
did  not  know  exactly  what  to  say  in  answer 
to  Gounod's  strong  assertions.  She  felt  eager 
to  go,  and  throw  off  this  restraint. 

"  I  must  go  ;  I  insist  upon  it,"  she  said. 
"  This  imprisonment  is  too  painful.  I  am 
always  watched.  I  cannot  breathe  freely." 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  Gounod,  "  this  is 
not  England.  Do  not  talk  of  a  prison.  It  is 
a  home,  a  French  home  ;  you  are  simply  liv 
ing  like  a  French  girl.  Be  patient,  I  pray 
you.  The  Abbe  Magrath  will  soon  be  here. 
It  is  painful  to  me  to  be  obliged  to  refuse  the 
slightest  request  of  yours,  but  this  one  is 
clearly  unreasonable — and  what  can  I  do  ?  " 

"I  cannot  understand  this  at  all,"  said 
Inez.  "This  danger  is  purely  imaginary.  I 
shall  die  if  I  am  shut  up  this  way." 

"  Mademoiselle,  you  need  not  be  shut  up. 
You  may  go  out  with  your  attendants." 

"My  jailers!"  exclaimed  Inez,  indig 
nantly. 

"Pardon,  mademoiselle,  I  must  ask  you 
not  to  use  such  language;  it  wounds  me,  and 
I  cannot  believe  that  you  have  that  inten 
tion." 

"I  have  no  intention  of  giving  pain  to 
anyone,"  said  Inez,  "but  I  must  insist  on 
being  allowed  some  slight  degree  of  liberty." 
"  Mademoiselle,  I  dare  not,"  said  Gounod. 
"  What  answer  could  I  make  to  the  good  Abbe 
Magrath  if  any  evil  should  happen  to  you  ?  " 
"  The  Abb<§  Magrath  is  nothing  to  me," 
said  Inez,  fretfully. 

"Pardon,  mademoiselle.  Is  he  not  your 
guardian  ?  Even  row  he  is  engaged  in  your 
affairs ;  he  is  endeavoring  to  procure  for  you 
a  happy  home,  and  I  dare  not  let  you  expose 
yourself  to  danger." 


This  was  Gounod's  position,  and  in  this  he 
was  immovable.  Inez  remonstrated,  but  her 
remonstrances  were  in  vain.  He  offered  again 
to  find  attendants  for  her,  but  the  offer  was 
of  course  rejected ;  and,  when  he  at  length 
took  his  departure,  Inez  found  herself  the 
lonely  occupant  of  this  suite  of  rooms,  which 
seemed  to  her  already  nothing  else  than  a 
prison-house. 

In  her  deep  indignation  at  Gounod's  strict 
ness,  and  in  the  impatience  with  which  she 
chafed  at  these  prison-walls,  she  imagined  a 
deeper  purpose  beneath  all  this  than  those 
commonplace  precautions  which  Gounod  pro 
fessed;  and,  in  the  effort  to  find  out  what 
this  purpose  might  be,  she  found  herself  look 
ing  beyond  Gounod  to  that  other  one  who 
seemed  to  her  to  be  the  real  master  here — 
the  one  whom  Gounod  quoted,  and  whom  he 
called  the  good  Abbe  Magrath. 

This  Abbe  Magrath  was  no   other  than 
Kevin  Magrath.     His  name  was  always  asso 
ciated  in   her  thoughts  with  those  mournful 
events  at  Villeneuve,  of  which  his  letter  to 
lennigar  Wyverne  had  been  thft  cause.    That 
etter  had  ever  since  been  in  her  possession, 
ts   language   was   familiar  to   her   memory. 
She  knew  every  word.     It  seemed  singularly 
11-omened,  and  gave  the  writer  the  character 
of  a  dark  intriguer,  to  her  mind — and  a  part 
ner  with   Hennigar  Wyverne  in  his   crime, 
whatever  that  might  have  been.     This  was 
;he  opinion  which  she  had  formed  of  Kevin 
Magrath  from  that  letter  of  his,  and  she  had 
never  ceased  to  wonder  how  it  had  happened 
hat  her  dying  father  had  intrusted  her  to 
•he  care  of  such  a  man.     Either  her  father 
lad  been  terribly  mistaken  in  his  friend,  or 
he  herself  must  have  formed  an  utterly  false 
pinion  with  regard  to  him. 

Thoughts  like  these  led  her  to  examine 
j  these  letters  once  more,  so  as  to  reassure  her 
self  about  the  nature  of  their  contents,  and  to 
see  if  there  would  now  appear  in  the  letter  of 
Kevin  Magrath  to  Hennigar  Wyverne  all  that 
dark  and  baleful  meaning  which  she  had  seen 
in  it  at  Villeneuve.  In  her  eagerness  to  as 
certain  this,  Inez  brought  forth  this  letter  and 
the  letters  of  Bernal  Mordaunt  from  her 
pocket-book,  where  she  kept  them  as  her 
most  precious  possessions,  and  little  else  did 
that  pocket-book  contain.  These  she  laid  on 
the  table  before  her,  and  then  spread  them  al , 
open. 

And  now,  scarcely  had  she  done  this,  when 


134 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


an  extraordinary  thing  attracted  her  atten 
tion,  and  a  suspicion  darted  into  her  mind, 
so  wild,  so  terrible,  that  she  started  back  in 
horror,  and  for  a  moment  averted  her  eyes. 
Yet  the  thing  was  there  visible  enough,  and 
the  suspicion  was  natural  enough,  for,  as  her 
eyes  hurried  again  to  the  papers,  she  saw  it 
plainly.  It  was  this : 

The  writing  of  these  letters  was  sufficiently 
alike  for  them  all  to  have  been  written  by  the 
same  man. 

One  of  them  was  from  Kevin  Magrath  to 
Hennigar  Wyverne.  The  others  purported  to 
be  from  her  father,  Bernal  Mordaunt,  to  her 
self,  Inez  Mordaunt,  his  child.  Yet  all  these 
might  have  been  written  by  the  same  man. 
What  was  the  meaning  of  this  ? 
Was  it  possible  that  Bernal  Mordaunt  had 
been  too  weak  to  write,  and  had  employed 
Kevin  Magrath  as  his  amanuensis  ?  It  did 
not  seem  possible  to  Inez,  for  the  writing  of 
these  letters  evidently  purported  to  be  that 
of  Bernal  Mordaunt  himself,  and  no  other ; 
and  the  characters  which  grew  more  and 
more  illegible  toward  the  close  were  evidently 
designed  to  indicate  the  weakness  of  a  dying 
man. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  this  ? 
With  a  trembling  hand,  and  a  heart  that 
was  now  throbbing  wildly  with  terrible  ex 
citement,  she  placed  all  the  letters  side  by 
side,  confronted  by  the  frightful  fact  that  the 
handwriting  in  all  three  was  essentially  the 
same.  So  appalling  was  this  discovery  that 
Inez  sat  motionless  for  some  time,  incapable 
of  movement,  incapable  almost  of  thought, 
paralyzed  by  the  tumult  of  feeling  which  now 
agitated  her  heart.  At  length  she  rose  to  her 
feet,  and,  with  an  unsteady  step,  and  a  face 
more  ghastly  than  it  had  been  ever  since  the 
first  awful  moment  of  her  arrival  here,  she 
tottered  toward  the  window,  and,  sinking 
down  upon  a  seat  there,  she  looked  vacantly 
and  dreamily  out.  Only  one  thought  was  in 
her  mind,  a  question  which  she  knew  not  how 
to  answer.  What  was  the  meaning  of  all 
this? 

Thus  far  Inez  had  allowed  herself  to  be 
borne  onward  by  circumstances,  and  had  ac 
cepted  in  good  faith  what  others  had  told  her, 
whether  by  letter  or  by  word  of  mouth.  But 
this  last  discovery  had  destroyed  her  blind 
faith.  It  had  roused  the  worst  suspicions. 
It  had  thrown  her  back  upon  her  own  reason, 
even  as  the  tragedy  at  Villeneuve  had  thrown 


her ;  and  thus,  as  the  first  shock  passed,  and 
she  gained  more  control  over  herself,  she  be 
gan  to  collect  her  thoughts,  and  to  review  her 
whole  position. 

One  of  two  things  at  length  seemed  evi 
dent  to  her : 

First,  the  writing  of  Kevin  Magrath  and 
that  of  Bernal  Mordaunt  may  possibly  have 
been  very  much  alike. 

Secondly,  Kevin  Magrath  may  have  forged 
these  letters. 

These  were  the  two  alternatives  before 
her,  unless  indeed  she  could  suppose  that 
Bernal  Mordaunt  had  himself  written  that  first 
letter  to  Hennigar  Wyverne  in  Kevin  Ma- 
grath's  name — a  thing  which,  from  the  na 
ture  of  the  case,  was  of  course  impossible. 

First,  then,  was  it  at  all  likely  that  Bernal 
Mordaunt's  handwriting  was  like  Kevin  Ma- 
grath's?  It  was  certainly  possible.  How 
could  she  know?  Could  she  find  out  what 
Bernal  Mordaunt's  handwriting  was  really 
like?  Scarce  had  she  asked  herself  this  ques 
tion  when  the  answer  came.  She  could.  In 
an  instant  she  recollected  that  little  note  ac 
companying  the  portraits  addressed  to  Henni 
gar  Wyverne  years  before.  She  had  it  yet. 
The  casket  was  in  her  trunk.  She  hurried  to 
the  trunk  and  opened  it.  With  a  trembling 
hand  she  took  out  the  note,  and  laid  it  on  the 
table  beside  the  other  papers. 

In  that  moment  the  answer  was  given. 

The  letter  of  Bernal  Mordaunt  to  Henni 
gar  Wyverne  was  in  writing  which  had  noth 
ing  in  common  with  that  of  the  letters  pur 
porting  to  have  been  written  by  him  to  her 
self.  Years  of  course  might  make  a  differ 
ence,  but  the  difference  here  was  not  that 
which  is  produced  by  time.  The  difference 
lay  in  the  essential  style  of  writing.  Bernal 
Mordaunt's  was  round,  Kevin  Magrath's  sharp 
and  angular.  The  one  who  had  written  these 
letters  in  Bernal  Mordaunt's  name  seemed  to 
Inez  to  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  she 
knew  nothing  of  Bernal  Mordaunt's  handwrit 
ing,  and  had  therefore  taken  no  pains  to  imi 
tate  it  or  to  disguise  his  own.  .And  this  one 
was  proved  to  be  Kevin  Magrath's  by  his  own 
letter. 

How  he  had  managed  to  send  these  letters 
at  such  a  time  Inez  could  not  imagine.  He 
must  have  had  some  secret  knowledge  of  her 
movements,  and  of  the  state  of  her  mind.  He 
must  have  known  that  she  would  be  prepared 
to  receive  Bernal  Mordaunt's  claim  to  be  her 


LIGHT  ON   THE   SITUATION. 


135 


father.  From  whom  could  he  have  obtaine 
this  knowledge  of  her  thoughts  and  feelings 
Gould  Saunders  have  been  his  spy  and  agent 
She  recalled  the  noise  which  had  startled  he 
on  the  night  when  she  searched  the  cabinet 
and  wondered  now  whether  she  had  been 
watched  then,  and  if  the  watcher  could  hav 
been  Saunders.  It  seemed  probable.  N 
one  was  so  likely  as  her  own  maid  to  give  ti 
Kevin  Magrath  such  information. 

It  seemed  to  Inez  now  that  these  letter; 
in  Bernal  Mordaunt's  hand  were  forged.  And 
what  followed  ?  A  whole  world  of  results — 
results  so  important  that  her  brain  reeled 
under  the  complication  of  thoughts  thai 
arose.  If  these  letters  were  forged,  then  Ber 
nal  Mordaunt  could  not  have  sent  for  her, 
He  might  never  have  been  in  Paris.  He 
might  even  now  be  searching  for  her  in  Eng 
land.  More  ;  she  might  not  be  his  daughter 
after  all.  How  could  she  now  believe  any 
thing  ?  How  could  she  tell  who  she  was  ? 
Thus  there  arose  in  her  mind  a  doubt  as  to 
herself  and  her  personal  identity,  out  of 
which  grew  fresh  perplexity.  But  this  soon 
passed.  Deep  down  in  her  heart  there  was 
an  instinct,  undefinable  yet  strong,  which 
forced  her  to  believe  that  she  was  Inez  Mor 
daunt,  the  daughter  of  Bernal  Mordaunt. 
Deep  down  in  her  heart  there  was  a  yearning 
love  which  had  quickened  into  active  life  at 
the  first  sight  of  those  portraits;  strange 
feelings  and  memories  had  been  awakened  by 
the  sight  of  those  faces ;  and  her  heart 
claimed  them  as  mother  and  sister. 

The  motive  that  might  have  animated 
Kevin  Magrath  toward  weaving  around  her 
this  dark  plot  was  an  impenetrable  mystery 
to  her  ;  but  that  he  had  woven  a  plot  was  now 
but  too  painfully  evident.  His  aim  seemed 
evidently  to  have  been  to  entrap  her  into  his 
own  power  through  her  own  consent  and  co 
operation  ;  and,  to  accomplish  this,  he  had 
been  working  most  subtly  and  most  assid 
uously.  She  recalled  the  langunge  of  his  let- 
ter  to  Hennigar  Wyverne,  with  reference  to 
herself,  that  she  (Inez)  must  be  removed  from 
Bernal  Mordaunt's  way.  She  now  saw  that 
the  death  of  Wyverne  had  not  changed  Kevin 
Magrath's  views,  but  had  only  caused  him  to 
take  the  matter  into  his  own  hands.  She 
saw,  too,  that  a  plot  of  this  kind,  which  had 
been  so  successful,  and  had  only  been  dis 
covered  by  an  accident,  could  not  have  been 
carried  out  at  all  without  the  cooperation  of 


some  of  the  inmates  of  the  house—that  ona 
being,  as  she  had  already  suspected,  her  maid 
Saunders. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  she  saw  that  the 
death  of  her  father  in  this  house  must  be  as 
false  as  the  dying  appeal  to  her.  She  con 
sidered  the  whole  thing  a  deception.  Affairs 
had  been  so  managed  that  she  had  not  caught 
one  glimpse  of  her  father  either  alive  or  dead. 
He  had  never  been  here  !  He  was  probably 
alive  and  searching  for  her,  and  she  had  fallen 
into  the  trap  set  for  her.  And  now,  since  she 
was  here  in  this  trap,  many  little  circum 
stances  explained  themselves  —  the  stealthy 
journey  from  the  railway-station,  the  strange 
behavior  of  the  man  Gounod,  whom  she  had 
detected  as  not  being  really  a  priest,  but  only 
some  common  man  in  a  priest's  dress  ;  the 
cautious  drives  out  in  a  close  cab  ;  the  locked 
doors  ;  the  constant  watch— in  all  this  also 
the  faithful  Sannders  was  implicated,  for  she, 
under  the  mask  of  devotion,  had  contrived  to 
be  with  her  always.  And  now  here  she  was, 
in  this  deserted  building,  alone,  a  prisoner, 
under  lock  and  key,  with  the  man  Gounod 
and  the  old  woman  as  her  jailers. 

What  could  she  do  ?  Could  she  hope  ever 
to  escape  ? 

Dark,  indeed,  the  prospect  seemed ;  nor 
could  she,  with  all  her  most  anxious  thoughts, 
discern  any  way  by  which  escape  might  be 
effected.  This  she  would  have  to  leave  to 
circumstances  in  the  future.  Perhaps  she 
might  be  removed  from  this  to  some  other 
place  where  an  opportunity  might  arise.  She 
;ould  not  hope  for  more  than  this,  and  she 
;ould  only  make  up  her  mind  to  be  as  cau- 
lous  as  possible,  so  as  to  avoid  suspicion, 
and  throw  her  enemies  off  their  guard. 

Night  came,  but  it  was  a  sleepless  one  to 
nez.  These  new  circumstances  kept  her  in  a 
tate  of  constant  excitement.  Yet,  though 
he  discovery  which  she  had  made  was  in  one 
ense  so  terrible,  it  was  not  without  its  alle 
viations.  Out  of  this  discovery  followed  an 
ssurance  to  her,  or  at  least  a  hope,  that  her 
ather  might  yet  be  alive,  that  he  might  be 
ven  now  seeking  for  her,  and  might  at  last 
nd  her.  Bessie  would  see  him  ;  she  would 
ell  him  all  that  she  knew  about  this  journey 
o  Paris.  Her  father  would  come  here;  he 
would  employ  the  aid  of  the  police ;  he  would 
t  last  rescue  her.  Thus  she  tried  to  hope, 
nd  this  hope  was  the  brightest  thing  that 
ad  occurred  to  her  since  her  arrival  here. 


136 


AN   OPEN    QUESTION. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

A     FLIGHT     FOR     LIFE. 

IXEZ  had  now  but  one  thought,  and  that 
was  escape.  Her  situation  was  one  which,  in 
spite  of  its  difficulties,  did  not  prevent  hope 
altogether.  She  was  a  prisoner,  it  is  true, 
but  the  departure  of  Saunders  deprived  her 
of  what  she  now  felt  to  be  the  most  danger 
ous  of  all  the  spies  around  her.  Gounod  and 
the  old  woman  remained,  but  neither  of  these 
seemed  capable  of  keeping  up  any  very  effec 
tive  or  very  vigilant  system  of  spying.  Kevin 
Magrath  was  not  here,  and  he  had  probably 
been  so  confident  in  the  security  of  this  pris 
on  that  he  had  sent  Saunders  away,  or  taken 
her  away  elsewhere. 

All  the  thoughts  of  Inez  for  the  next  few 
days  were  directed  toward  her  surroundings, 
in  the  endeavor  to  discover  some  way  by 
which  she  might  carry  into  execution  her 
plan  of  escape.  This  endeavor,  however,  was 
not  very  successful.  The  house  was  unin 
habited  except  by  herself  and  her  jailers. 
Her  apartments  were  on  one  side ;  the  win 
dows  of  her  rooms  opened  upon  the  gallery, 
and  not  upon  any  street.  This  gallery  was 
also  shut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  house ;  and 
the  door  by  which  escape  could  be  made  from 
it  was  kept  locked  always.  Twice  a  day  the 
old  woman  unlocked  it  and  made  her  appear- 
ance:  once  with  breakfast,  and  also  to  make 
the  beds  and  cle.ir  up  the  rooms  ;  and  a 
second  time  with  dinner.  Sometimes  Gounod 
would  look  in  during  the  day.  His  calls 
were,  however,  irregular,  and  Inez  never  took 
any  notice  of  him. 

Now,  the  policy  of  Inez  was  very  simple, 
and  at  once  the  best  and  the  easiest  for  her 
under  the  circumstances.  She  appeared  quite 
content.  She  was  wrapped  up  in  herself. 
She  never  spoke  one  word,  good  or  bad,  to 
the  old  woman  or  Gounod.  She  ate  her 
meals,  slept  at  night,  and,  during  the  day,  sat 
patiently  in  her  room.  Neither  Gounod  nor 
the  old  woman  ever  saw  any  sign  of  irrpa- 
tience  in  her.  To  neither  of  them  did  she 
ever  hint  that  she  was  discontented  or  un 
happy.  She  never  asked  to  go  out,  or  to 
drive  out.  As  far  as  they  could  judge  by 
outward  appearances,  she  was  content.  They 
had  every  reason  to  believe  that  she  had  ac 
quiesced  in  the  plan  of  Kevin  Magrath,  and 
was  now  placidly  waiting  for  his  return  so  as 


to  accompany  him  to  Rome.  Gradually  this 
conviction  became  strengthened  in  the  minds 
of  her  jailers.  The  old  woman,  who  at  first 
used  to  look  at  her  anxiously  every  time  she 
came  in,  grew  at  length  to  accept  her  calm 
and  peaceful  face  as  a  matter  of  course.  Gou 
nod  became  less  vigilant,  and  his  visits  be 
came  more  and  more  infrequent.  Many  little 
things,  indeed,  showed  a  relaxation  of  the 
strictness  of  their  watch. 

Meanwhile,  though  Inez  thus  succeeded 
in  maintaining  an  outward  calm  so  perfectly 
as  to  impose  upon  her  watchful  jailers,  she 
herself  was  by  no  means  free  from  agitation 
and  tumultuous  feelings.  It  was  one  long 
state  of  suspense,  and  all  the  harassing  con 
ditions  of  suspense  were  experienced  by  her 
to  the  uttermost.  Yet,  Inez  came  to  this  task 
not  without  preparation.  She  had  already 
endured  much  ;  already  had  she  learned  to 
subdue  her  emotions,  and  exercise  self-con 
trol.  This  new  task  was,  therefore,  the 
easier  to  her  from  the  preparation  which  she 
had  undergone.  Under  cover,  then,  of  pro 
found  calm  and  placid  content,  she  carried  an 
incessant  watchfulness,  an  eager,  sleepless 
outlook,  a  vigilant  attention  to  all  that  went 
on  around  her.  Not  a  change  took  place  in 
the  action  or  demeanor  of  her  jailers  which 
she  failed  to  notice ;  and  these  changes 
seemed  to  promise  something. 

Already  ehe  had  placed  all  her  hope  in 
the  door  at  the  end  of  the  gallery.  Through 
that  only  could  she  hope  to  escape.  Her 
gallery  was  too  high  above  the  court-yard  for 
her  to  let  herself  down.  There  were  no  oth 
er  ways  by  which  she  could  leave  this  story 
on  which  she  was,  either  to  go  up  or  down. 
Since,  then,  this  door  was  the  only  pathway 
to  liberty,  it  became  the  centre  of  all  her 
thoughts  and  watchfulness. 

It  was  with  reference  to  this,  then,  that 
certain  things  were  noticed  by  her. 

The  old  woman  came,  as  has  been  said, 
regularly  twice  a  day.  At  first  she  was  most 
painfully  careful  and  guarded  in  all  her  ac 
tions.  Upon  passing  through  the  gallery- 
door,  she  always  spent  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  in  locking  it,  putting  the  key  in  her 
pocket,  and  in  trying  the  lock  over  and  over, 
to  see  whether  it  was  really  locked  or  not. 
Then  she  would  come  to  the  parlor,  and  look 
in  with  painful  and  eager  inquiry. 

But  the  cool  and  patient  indifference  of 
Inez  affected  the  old  woman  in  spite  of  her- 


THE   FLIGHT  FOR  LIFE. 


137 


self.  Gradually,  she  spent  less  and  less  time 
at  the  door.  This  Inez  noticed  as  she  safr  in 
the  parlor.  This  parlor  was  near  the  door, 
and  through  the  window,  which  opened  out 
into  the  gallery,  she  could  see  it  very  plainly. 
The  old  woman  would  bring  in  breakfast,  and 
then,  while  Inez  was  eating,  she  would  go  to 
her  bedroom,  at  the  other  end  of  the  gallery, 
to  attend  to  her  duties  there. 

Now,  the  decreasing  vigilance  of  the  old 
woman  became  a  matter  of  immense  impor 
tance  to  Inez,  especially  with  regard  to  the 
gallery-door.  Upon  this  all  her  attention  be 
came  exclusively  centred.  Every  day  made 
some  trifling  change  which  was  in  her  favor. 
The  old  woman  at  length  turned  the  key  in 
the  lock  quite  carelessly,  and  once  even  left 
it  in  the  lock  and  walked  into  the  parlor,  leav 
ing  it  there.  Something,  however,  put  her  in 
mind  of  it,  and  she  returned  and  took  it  out. 

A  few  days  passed,  and  the  same  thing 
occurred  again.  This  was  the  thing  for 
which  Inez  had  been  waiting.  This  was  the 
thing  for  which  she  had  been  preparing.  The 
old  woman  spread  the  breakfast,  and  never 
remembered  about  the  key,  and  then,  as 
usual,  turned  toward  the  bedroom.  As  she 
left  the  parlor,  Inez  started  up,  and,  at  the 
very  moment  when  she  disappeared  through 
her  bedroom-door,  she  stole  with  a  swift  yet 
stealthy  step  to  the  gallery-door.  In  an  in 
stant  she  unlocked  it,  snatched  out  the  key, 
transferred  it  to  the  other  side,  and  locked  it 
there. 


Thus  the  old  woman  herself  was  impris 
oned. 

But  for  Inez  there  was  no  time  to  lose. 
The  old  woman  might  discover  what  had  hap 
pened  at  any  moment;  and,  if  Gounod  was  in 
the  house,  he  would  hear  her  cries.  Inez, 
therefore,  hurried  along  down  a  flight  of 
steps  that  was  before  her  swiftly,  yet  cau 
tiously,  and  thus  she  reached  the  story  below. 
Now  there  was  a  narrow  corridor  that  ran 
for  some  distance,  and  at  the  end  of  this  a 
flight  of  steps.  Down  this  she  also  went  in 
the  same  way.  Reaching  the  bottom,  she 
found  herself  on  the  ground-floor,  inside  a 
hall  that  ran  across  the  building.  At  the 
bottom  of  vnis  stairway  there  was  a  door  that 
opened  into  the  court-yard,  and  this  lower 
hall  ran  back  from  this  door  to  the  front  of 
the  house,  where  there  was  another  door. 

Inez  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  close 
by  this  back-door,  and  peeped  cautiously  forth 


at  the  front-door.  In  an  instant  she  drew 
back.  It  was  the  conciergerie.  There  was  a 
man  there.  It  was  Gounod.  The  front-door 
was  open,  but  Gounod  sat  there,  smoking, 
reading  a  morning  paper,  barring  her  way  to 
liberty. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  still,  overcome 
by  despair,  but  in  another  moment  it  passed. 
Then,  with  the  same  swift  resolution  and 
presence  of  mind  which  had  marked  all  her 
acts  thus  far,  she  stepped  noiselessly  out 
through  the  door  into  the  court-yard.  The 
stairway  concealed  her  from  Gounod,  and  she 
made  no  noise  to  betray  her  movement. 

This  back-door  was  double ;  there  was  an 
inner  and  an  outer  one.  The  outer  one  was 
of  massive  construction  ;  the  inner  one  was 
lighter,  and  had  windows  in  the  sides. 

One  look  around  the  court-yard  showed 
that  there  was  no  avenue  of  escape  there. 
The  main  portal  was  closed  and  locked. 
There  was  only  one  hope,  and  that  was 
through  the  conciergerie.  Perhaps  Gounod 
would  move.  Perhaps  he  would  go  up-stairs, 
or  out  into  the  street,  or  into  the  court-yard ; 
perhaps  he  might  fall  asleep ;  perhaps,  if  all 
else  failed,  she  might  make  a  mad  rush  for 
liberty. 

One  of  these  things  might  happen.  It 
was  necessary  for  her  to  hold  herself  ia 
readiness.  The  space  between  the  two  doors 
seemed  adapted  for  a  hiding-place.  Through 
the  glass  of  the  inner  door  she  could  watch 
the  movements  of  Gounod;  while  the  mas- 
sive  outer  door,  as  it  swung  back,  would  shut 
her  in  and  save  her  from  detection.  The 
moment  that  this  thought  suggested  itself 
she  acted  upon  it.  Quietly  pulling  back  the 
door,  she  slipped  into  the  place,  and  then 
drew  the  door  so  as  to  shut  herself  in.  The 
glass  was  dusty,  but,  by  breathing  upon  it 
and  rubbing  it  gently,  she  was  able  to  watch 
the  conciergerie,  and  see  Gounod  with  suffi 
cient  distinction. 

There  she  waited — watchful,  motionless, 
scarce  daring  to  breathe,  looking  with  all  her 
eyes,  and  listening  with  all  her  ears.  She 
was  straining  her  eyes  to  see  if  Gounod  would 
move,  or  if  any  favorable  change  would  take 
place  in  his  position.  But  Gounod  made  no 
change  for  the  better.  He  smoked  on,  and 
shifted  and  changed  hid  position,  and  leaned 
at  times  back  in  his  chair,  and  yawned,  and 
read  his  paper,  and  smoked  again,  and  so  on, 
till  Inez  thought  that  hours  must  have  passed, 


138 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


and  wondered  what  sort  of  a  paper  this  could 
be  which  could  thus  take  BO  long  a  time  to 
read. 

She  had  been  listening  all  this  time — lis 
tening  to  hear  whether  the  old  woman  had 
discovered  her  flight.  This  discovery  might 
take  place  at  any  moment.  A  long  time  had 
passed,  and  it  seemed  far  longer  than  it  really 
was  ;  and,  as  it  passed,  the  attention  of  Inez 
only  grew  the  more  eager. 

Suddenly  it  came. 

She  heard  it. 

The  cry ! 

Her  flight  was  discovered.  The  old  wom 
an  had  found  it  out. 

There  was  a  wild,  shrill,  piercing  yell  from 
the  upper  part  of  the  house — a  yell  so  clear 
and  penetrating  that  Inez  actually  felt  it  thrill 
through  all  her  frame,  and  Gounod  sprang  to 
his  feet,  while  the  paper  fell  from  his  hands 
and  the  pipe  from  his  mouth.  He  stood  lis 
tening. 

There  came  another  yell — a  yell  of  wild 
lament,  intermingled  with  words,  which,  how 
ever,  were  quite  unintelligible.  Gounod  threw 
a  quick  look  around  him,  and  then  darted 
from  the  condergerie,  and  ran  hastily  toward 
the  back-door.  He  advanced  straight  toward 
the  hiding-place  where  Inez  was  standing,  and 
then,  reaching  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  stood  lis 
tening  once  more.  At  that  moment  he  was 
not  more  than  twelve  inches  from  Inez. 

Horror  paralyzed  her.  She  could  not  even 
breathe.  It  was  terrible,  beyond  expression, 
to  be  so  near  to  escape,  and  yet  to  have  so 
near  her  the  relentless  jailer.  But  her  sus 
pense  did  not  last  long.  Gounod  waited,  and 
then  another  yell,  more  impatient,  more  pro 
longed,  and  more  eager,  came  down  to  his 
cars.  Upon  this  he  started,  and,  springing 
forward,  rushed  up  the  stairs,  taking  three 
steps  at  a  time. 

Now  was  the  moment !  Before  Gounod 
had  gained  the  top  of  that  stairway,  Inez  had 
slipped  out  from  her  hiding-place ;  and,  as  he 
was  running  along  the  upper  gallery,  she  was 
hurrying  toward  the  condergerie.  Here  a 
sudden  impulse  seized  her  to  take  some  kind 
of  a  disguise,  so  as  to  prevent  observation. 
In  her  present  dress  she  would  look  strange 
in  the  streets,  without  jacket  or  bonnet.  One 
quick  look  around  the  condergerie  was  enough. 
There  was  an  old  water-proof  cloak  there  and 
a  hat,  evidently  the  property  of  the  old  wom 
an.  Inez  felt  some  reluctance  about  using 


these  things,  especially  the  hat,  but  there 
was  no  help  for  it.  She  could  not  stop  to 
reason.  She  seized  the  cloak,  flung  it  over 
her,  thrust  the  hat  on  her  head,  and  then 
sprang  out  through  the  open  door  into  the 
street. 

Away  and  away  !  She  was  afraid  to  run, 
but  she  walked  as  rapidly  as  possible.  At 
length  this  street  ran  into  another  which  was 
more  crowded.  Here  she  mingled  with  the 
throng  of  people  and  soon  lost  herself.  But 
it  was  not  easy  for  her  to  feel  safe.  So  terri 
ble  was  her  sense  of  pursuit  and  her  dread 
of  capture  that  she  walked  on  and  on,  turning 
into  one  street  after  another,  rounding  cor 
ners,  walking  up  lanes,  and  losing  herself 
inextricably.  The  streets,  as  she  went,  grew 
more  and  more  populous,  the  houses  grew 
handsomer,  the  public  buildings  more  stately. 
At  length  she  came  to  a  river,  over  which 
there  were  thrown  numerous  magnificent 
bridges,  and  beyond  there  arose  the  lordly 
outline  of  splendid  palaces  and  noble  monu 
ments.  In  these  she  beheld,  at  length  re 
vealed,  all  the  glories  of  Paris  ;  and,  in  spite 
of  the  terrors  of  pursuit  and  the  agitation  of 
her  flight,  she  could  not  help  accepting  this 
as  a  fresh  proof  of  the  vigilance  of  her  jailers 
and  the  treachery  of  Saunders,  who  had  never 
driven  her  near  this  part  of  Paris,  but  had 
diligently  kept  her  in  streets  where  she  could 
see  nothing  of  the  splendor  of  the  great  city. 

But  there  was  no  time  now  either  to  recall 
past  treachery  or  to  admire  the  splendors  of 
the  surrounding  scene.  Escape  was  her  only 
thought— security  in  some  place  of  refuge, 
where  she  might  collect  her  thoughts  and 
consider  her  future.  On,  then,  she  went,  and 
still  on.  She  crossed  a  bridge  that  was  near 
est,  and  then  once  more  plunged  into  a  crowd 
of  streets. 

At  length,  her  attention  was  arrested  by  a 
notice  on  the  window  of  a  house.  It  looked 
like  a  place  suited  to  one  of  moderate  means. 
It  was  a  notice  to  lodgers.  She  entered  here, 
and  made  inquiries.  She  was  pleased  with 
the  look  of  the  place,  and  also  with  the  ap 
pearance,  the  tone,  and  the  manner  of  the 
landlady.  Here,  then,  she  took  lodgings. 

Her  first  thoughts  now  were  about  regain 
ing  her  friends.  She  had  no  money,  and 
therefore  could  not  travel.  She  could  think 
of  only  one  thing  to  do,  and  that  was  to  write 
to  Bessie.  Bessie  would  feel  for  her,  and 
either  send  her  money  or  fly  to  her  relief 


A  FRESH   INVESTIGATION. 


139 


Bessie  also  might  know  about  her  father  by 
this  time,  and  would  send  him.  So  afraid, 
however,  was  Inez  of  letting  her  secret  be 
known  that  she  did  not  give  Bessie  the  ad 
dress  of  her  lodgings,  but  simply  told  her  to 
address  the  letter  poste  restante  at  Paris.  In 
her  letter  she  informed  Bessie  that  she  had 
come  to  Paris  owing  to  false  information 
which  she  had  received,  that  she  had  been 
in  great  distress ;  and,  after  a  brief  outline 
of  her  sufferings,  implored  her  to  send  her  at 
once  as  much  money  as  would  be  sufficient  to 
take  her  to  England. 

Having  written  this,  she  waited  impatiently 
for  an  answer.  Afraid  to  go  to  the  post-office 
herself,  for  fear  of  being  discovered  and  re 
captured  by  some  agent  of  Magrath's,  Inez 
appealed  to  the  landlady,  who  sent  her  daugh 
ter  there.  There  was  no  answer. 
Several  days  passed. 
Every  day  some  one  went  there,  either 
the  landlady  or  the  landlady's  daughter,  or 
some  other  member  of  the  family.  All  were 
full  of  sympathy  for  the  beautiful  English 
girl  who  was  so  lonely  and  so  sad.  But  the 
days  passed,  and  still  no  answer  came. 

Then  Inez  wrote  again.  Her  letter  was 
more  urgent  and  more  full  of  entreaty  than 
before.  She  drew  a  picture  of  her  past  suf 
ferings  and  present  desolation  that  would 
have  moved  the  most  callous  heart,  and  im 
plored  Bessie  not  to  delay  in  sending  her  as 
sistance. 

After  this  she  again  waited  in  a  fever  of 
impatience.  Day  after  day  passed,  and  week 
after  week.  No  answer  came.  At  length,  so 
great  was  the  anxiety  of  Inez  that  it  sur 
mounted  even  the  haunting  dread  of  pursuit 
and  recapture ;  and,  fearing  that  the  landlady 
might  have  made  a  mistake  of  some  sort,  she 
ventured  forth  to  the  post-office  herself.  But 
she  met  with  no  better  success. 

There  was  no  letter  at  all  for  any  such 
person  as  Inez  Mordaunt.  There  was  no  let 
ter  for  any  such  person  as  Inez  Wyverne 

nor  for  Miss  Mordaunt,  nor  for  Miss  Wyverne. 
Inez  named  herself  in  every  possible  way ; 
but  the  end  of  it  all  was,  that  no  answer  at 
all  had  been  sent  to  either  of  her  letters. 

Upon  this  she  lost  all  hope,  and  the  only 
conclusion  that  she  could  come  to  was,  that 
Bessie  herself  had  perhaps  been  foully  dealt 
with  by  Kevin  Magrath.  This  fear  seemed 
so  justifiable  that  it  preyed  more  and  more 
upon  her  mind,  and  finally  became  a  convic 


tion.  The  picture  which  her  imagination 
formed  of  the  childish  and  light-hearted  Bes 
sie,  drawn  helplessly  into  the  power  of  the 
unscrupulous  Magrath,  was  too  terrible  to  be 
endured.  The  sufferings  through  which  she 
had  passed  since  her  flight  reached  a  climax. 
This  lust  disappointment  broke  down  all  her 
fortitude.  Strength  and  hope  alike  gave  way, 
and  a  severe  attack  of  illness  followed,  in 
which  she  once  more  went  down  to  the  ex 
treme  verge  of  life.  But  the  kind  care  of  the 
landlady  watched  over  her,  and  those  good 
people  showed  warm  and  loving  hearts.  Their 
care  saved  her,  and  Inez  was  once  more  brough  t 
back  to  life. 

As  she  found  herself  convalescent,  she  be 
came  every  day  more  and  more  aware  of  the 
necessity  that  there  was  to  get  money  in  some 
way.  Her  debt  to  the  landlady  was  heavy 
already;  and,  more  than  this,  she  was  eager 
to  return  to  England. 

How  could  she  do  this  ? 
There  was  only  one  way  possible. 
That  gold  cross  which  she  had  found  at 
Villeneuve  she  had  ever  since  worn  around 
her  neck,  and  had  it  still.    There  was  no  other 
way  to  save  herself  than  by  the  sacrifice  of 
this.     It  was  a  bitter  thing,  but  it  had  to  be 
done.     It  was  necessary  to  pawn  it,  and  thus 
get  that  money  which  alone  could  save  her 
now. 

She  had,  therefore,  nerved  herself  up  to 
this.  She  had  set  forth  in  search  of  a  pawn 
broker  or  something  equivalent,  and  was  on 
this  errand  at  the  time  she  met  Kane  Hell- 
muth.  Full  of  terror,  fearing  pursuit  and 
recapture,  every  one  seemed  a  possible  ene 
my;  and  the  earnest  stare  of  Kane  HeiliKuth 
was  sufficient  to  rouse  all  her  fears.  He 
seemed  some  agent  of  her  enemy,  and,  when 
she  knew  that  she  was  being  pursued  by  him, 
she  lost  all  hope.  As  a  last  resource,  she 
sought  to  take  a  cab,  but  at  that  instant  her 
strength  gave  way. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A     FRESH     INVESTIGATION. 

THE  story  of  Inez  had  been  communicated 
to  Kane  Hellmuth  in  the  course  of  several 
interviews.  The  confidence  which  thus  began 
between  them,  soon  became  of  the  most  famil 
iar  kind.  From  the  first,  the  sore  necessities 


140 


AN    OPEN   QUESTION. 


of  Inez  made  her  cling  to  this  strange  Eng 
lishman  upon  whom  she  had  been  thrown, 
and  who  had  been  so  ready  in  the  offer  of  his 
assistance ;  but,  after  she  learned  who  he  was, 
her  trust  in  him  became  boundless.  The  con 
fidence  which  she  put  in  him  was  met  with 
the  fullest  return  on  his  part ;  and  Inez,  who 
had  trusted  in  him,  when  she  discovered  that 
he  was  the  friend  of  Dr.  Blake,  at  length 
learned,  to  her  amazement,  that  he  was  the 
husband  of  her  elder  sister  Clara.  This  dis 
covery  she  hailed  with  the  utmost  joy.  This 
one  fact  gave  her  a  friend  and  protector. 
More,  it  gave  her  a  relative.  Kane  Hellmuth 
was  thus  her  brother,  since  he  was  her  sister's 
husband.  Could  any  thing  be  more  consoling 
than  this  ?  To  this  man,  then,  the  friend  of 
her  lover,  and  the  husband  of  her  sister,  she 
gave  all  her  trust  and  confidence. 

As  brother  of  Inez,  Kane  Hellmuth  took 
her  at  once  under  his  protection.  He  re 
deemed  her  from  her  difficulties,  and  let  her 
have  sufficient  money  to  extricate  herself 
from  her  embarrassments  without  the  sacri 
fice  of  the  precious  relic  of  her  father.  As 
her  brother,  he  visited  her  at  the  house,  and 
was  received  with  smiles  of  welcome  by  the 
kind-hearted  landlady  and  her  daughter,  who 
were  filled  with  joy  at  this  sudden  improve 
ment  in  the  fortunes  of  the  sweet  young  Eng 
lish  lady  that  had  become  so  dear  to  them. 

In  the  course  of  their  conversations  Kane 
Hellmuth  had  mentioned  to  her  what  he 
knew  of  Dr.  Blake,  but  did  not  show  her  his 
letter.  It  was  so  incoherent  that  he  was 
afraid  that  it  might  increase  her  anxieties  if, 
as  he  strongly  suspected,  she  cared  much  for 
him.  His  own  anxieties  about  Blake  he  kept 
to  himself;  and,  indeed,  these  were  now  com 
pletely  eclipsed  by  his  anxieties  about  Inez. 

The  story  of  Inez  had  excited  within  him 
an  extraordinary  tumult  of  contending  emo 
tion.  The  new  position  in  which  it  placed 
Kevin  Magrath,  was  the  most  astonishing 
thing  to  him.  He  had  a  very  vivid  remem 
brance  of  that  man,  of  his  rollicking  Irish  ex 
travagance,  and  his  bitter  denunciation  of 
the  "  destroyer  of  Clara  Mordaunt."  He  had 
been  accustomed  to  think  of  him  as  a  sort 
of  accusing  witness  against  himself;  but  now 
this  accusing  witness  was  transformed  into  a 
remorseless  villain,  who  had  been  the  framer 
of  an  infamous  plot  against  a  defenceless 
girl.  A  new  motive  for  action  was  roused 
within  him :  to  meet  this  man  again,  to  ex 


tort  from  him  some  satisfaction  for  his  mis 
deeds,  or  bring  him  to  punishment. 

Apart  from  the  villany  of  Magrath,  there 
stood  forward,  prominently,  the  contradiction 
between  what  he  said  to  himself  and  what  he 
communicated  to  Inez.  To  himself  he  had 
said  that  Inez  was  Inez  Wyverne ;  that  her 
father,  Hennigar  Wyverne,  had  left  her  pen 
niless,  and  that  she  would  be  dependent.  To 
Inez  he  had  plainly  declared,  by  his  letters, 
that  she  was  the  daughter  of  Bernal  Mor 
daunt. 

To  himself  he  had  said  that  Hennigar 
Wyverne  owed  Bernal  Mordaunt  money;  to 
Inez  he  had  told  a  story  of  the  most  absurd 
and  extravagant  kind. 

In  short,  all  that  Magrath  had  said  to  him 
was  utterly  opposed  in  every  respect  to  what 
he  had  said  to  Inez. 

As  he  had  thus  lied  about  Inez,  might  he 
not  also  have  lied  about  Clara  ? 

This  thought  started  up  in  Kane  Hell- 
muth's  mind,  and  at  once  roused  his  eager 
desire  to  make  new  inquiries  about  the  death 
of  his  lost  wife.  The  theory  that  Dr.  Blake 
had  suggested  had  once  before  deeply  im 
pressed  him;  the  statements  of  Magrath 
seemed  to  have  destroyed  that  theory;  but 
now,  since  Magrath  had  been  proved  to  be  a 
villain  and  a  liar,  his  old  feelings  rose  up, 
and,  for  his  own  sake,  as  well  as  for  the  sake 
of  Inez,  he  resolved  to  enter  upon  a  fresh 
search  into  the  whole  of  this  dark  mystery. 

It  was  a  mystery -before  which  he  was 
completely  baffled.  It  seemed  to  be  a  fact, 
after  all,  that  Hennigar  Wyverne's  dying 
declaration  was  true.  Inez  was  clearly  the 
daughter  of  Bernal  Mordaunt.  Would  it  be 
equally  true  that  Dr.  Blake  was  the  son  of 
Hennigar  Wyverne?  He  remembered  how 
strongly  Blake  himself  had  at  one  time  been 
inclined  to  this  belief,  and  for  whose  sake  he 
had  refrained  from  entering  upon  a  search. 
It  was  the  statement  of  Magnvth  which  had 
driven  this  belief  out  of  Blake's  mind,  but 
now  this  statement  had  turned  out  to  be  a 
lie.  More  than  this,  Magrath  himself  had 
been  shown  to  have  a  deep  interest  in  this 
lie ;  he  had  come  forward  as  an  active  perse 
cutor,  and,  in  intention,  a  destroyer  of  Inez. 
Would  he  have  the  same  motive  to  act  against 
Blake?  Could  Blake's  extraordinary  disap 
pearance,  and  still  more  extraordinary  silence, 
be  due  to  the  same  subtle  agency?  Could 
the  man  who  had  beguiled  Inez  to  Paris  and 


A  FRESH   INVESTIGATION. 


entrapped  her,  have  beguiled  Blake  also  to 
some  place  where  he  might  work  his  will  up 
on  him  ?  Blake,  in  his  letter,  spoke  of  going 
"  south  "  with  a  friend.  Could  this  friend  be 
Magrath  ?  Could  that  "  south  "  be  Home  ? 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  filled  Kane 
Hellmuth's  mind.  The  whole  situation  be 
came  a  dark  and  inscrutable  problem.  It 
was  impossible  to  solve  it  while  resting  inac 
tive  at  Paris.  It  was  necessary  for  him  to 
act,  and  to  act  immediately,  both  for  the  sake 
of  Inez  and  also  for  the  sake  of  Blake. 

Another  also  appeared  to  Inez  to  be  in 
volved  in  this  mystery,  and  that  was  Bessie. 
About  Bessie,  Kane   Hellmuth  was  gi-eatly 
troubled.     Inez  had  informed  him  of  Bessie's 
own  account  of  herself,  and  her  belief  that 
she  was  the  daughter  of  Bernal  Mordaunt. 
The  name  Mordaunt  had  struck  him  very  for 
cibly  once  before,  and  now  it  afforded  equal 
matter  for  conjecture.     He  was  puzzled,  but 
he  could  not  help  thinking  that,  as  Inez  knew 
her  best,  her  conjectures  about  her  were  more 
just  than  his.     The  fact  that  she,  too,  was 
involved  in  this  wide-spreading  difficulty,  only 
afforded  a  fresh  reason  for  instant  action  on 
his  part. 

This  decision  he  announced  to  Inez,  who 
at  once  begged  that  he  would  take  her  to 
England. 

To  this,  however,  Kane  Hellmuth  ob 
jected. 

"  My  dear  Inez,"  said  he,  addressing  her 
in  that  familiar  manner  which  was  justified 
by  his  near  relationship,  "  you  are  really  safer 
here  than  anywhere  else.  There  are  many 
reasons  why  you  had  better  not  go.  Your 
enemies  will  think  that  you  are  in  England 
even  now,  and  will  search  after  you  there. 
In  travelling  there  with  me  you  would  be  cer 
tain  to  be  discovered,  and  I  also  would  be 
known  as  your  friend  and  companion.  They 
would  know  that  I  had  found  out  all — our  re 
lationship,  also — and  would  be  in  a  position 
to  baffle  me  in  my  search.  You,  too,  would 
be  watched ;  and,  as  I  should  have  to  leave 
you,  I  could  never  feel  comfortable  about 
you." 

"  But'  isn't  this  place  far  more  danger 
ous  ?  » 

"  No,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth ;  "  on  the  con 
trary,  it's  the  safest  place  in  the  world.  They 
will  never  look  for  you  in  Paris.  Then,  again, 
even  if  they  were  to  find  you,  they  could  do 
nothing.  Paris  is  the  best-governed  city  in 
10 


141 

the  world.     The  police  here  are  omniscient ; 
no  one  could  be  illegally  carried  off.     You  arc 
absolutely  safe.     The  moment  you  left  that 
house,  you  were  safe.     If  the  old  woman  and 
Gounod  had  both  chased  and  captured  you, 
they  would  not  have  dared  to  take  you  back, 
unless   you   yourself    wished.      Any   remon 
strance  of  yours  would  have  drawn  the  atten 
tion  of  the  police.     Gounod  and  the  old  woman 
would  have  been  arrested  and  examined  ;  and 
that,  I  imagine,  is  about  the  last  thing  that 
they  would  wish  to  happen  to  them.     Men  of 
Gounod's  order  are  particularly  anxious  not 
to  get  into  the  hands  of  the  police.     The  fact 
is,  there  is  no  place  in  the  world  where  you 
are  so  absolutely  safe  as  you  are  here.     In 
London  you  would  be  in  danger.    In  any  small 
town  anywhere  you  might  be  in  danger.    Here, 
however,  no  danger  can  befall  you.     I  assure 
you  solemnly,  my  dear  Inez,  it  is  absolutely 
impossible  for  you  to  get  into  the  hands  of 
that  miscreant   again,    unless   you   yourself 
voluntarily  go  there." 

At  this  Inez  smiled.  Kane  Hellmuth's 
tone  completely  reassured  her.  The  idea  of 
putting  herself  voluntarily  into  the  hands 
of  Kevin  Magrath  was,  however,  excessively 
amusing  to  her. 

"  You  may  laugh,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth, 
"but  that  is  a  real  danger.  Be  on  your 
guard.  Don't  let  him  entrap  you  again."* 

"I  shouldn't  go  with  him,"   said  Inez, 
not  even  if  he  should  declare  that  my  papa 
was  dying,  as  he  did  before." 

"Oh,  well,  be  wouldn't  use  that  trap 
again ;  he  would  have  something  else  the 
next  time." 

There  is  nothing  else,"  said  Inez ;  "there 
is  no  other  living  being  through  whom  he  could 
work  upon  me." 

Kane  Hellmuth  looked  at  her  earnest 
ly. 

"I  am  very  much  mistaken,  my  poor 
Inez,"  said  he,  "if  there  is  not.  There  is,  I 
think,  one  other  human  being.  Be  on  your 
guard,  dear ;  don't  allow  yourself  to  be  de 
ceived.  You  know  whom  I  mean.  Now,  if 
it  should  happen  that  you  should  hear  of  him 
in  any  way  that  is  not  perfectly  free  from 
suspicion,  be  on  your  guard." 

Inez  looked  down  on  the  floor  with  a 
heightened  color,  and  in  some  surprise.  She 
did  not  know  about  Kane  Hellmuth's  fears 
for  Blake,  or  his  suspicions  about  Magrath's 
possible  intentions  toward  him  also. 


142 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


"  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  how  that  could  be," 
said  she. 

"  Well,  no  matter,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth. 
41  Only  promise  me  that  you  will  not  go  any 
where  without  ample  protection  and  secu 
rity." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Inez;  "I'm  sure 
I've  learned  too  hard  a  lesson  to  forget  it 

easily." 

"  I  hope  you  may  not,"  said  Kane  Hell 
muth. 

In  view  of  this  proposed  journey,  Inez 
would  have  been  glad,  indeed,  if  she  could 
have  given  him  any  information  which  might 
assist  him  in  the  search.  But  this  she  was 
unable  to  do.  She  knew  of  no  one  who  was 
acquainted  with  the  past  of  herself,  except, 
perhaps,  old  Mrs.  Klein.  That  person  had 
certainly  given  her  some  valuable  informa 
tion,  but  she  did  it  incidentally,  and  in  a  hap 
hazard  fashion.  An  old  creature,  so  sodden 
with  drink  as  she  was,  could  not  be  expected 
to  give  any  coherent  answers  to  a  regular 
series  of  questions.  Of  this  she  informed  Kane 
Hellmuth,  who  took  down  her  name  and  ad 
dress,  and  thought  that  it  might  be  worth 
while  to  pay  the  old  woman  a  visit. 

When  he  bade  her  good-by  that  evening, 
it  was  with  a  certain  solemn  foreboding  of 
indefinable  evil  that  was  possible— some  evil 
that  might  happen  to  her  or  to  himself,  be 
fore  they  might  meet  again. 

"  Good-by,  Inez,  dear  sister !  Remember 
what  you  promised." 

"  Good-by,  Kane  !  "  said  Inez,  in  a  voice 
full  of  emotion. 

She  felt  as  though  she  was  losing  her  onl; 
friend.  A  tear  stood  in  her  eye.  Kane  Hell 
muth  held  her  hand  in  his,  and  looked  at  her 
with  a  softened  expression  on  his  stern 

face. 

Then  he  stooped,  and  kissed  her. 

Then  he  turned,  and  left  the  house. 

On  the  following  morning  he  left  for  Lon 
don,  and  arrived  there  in  due  time.  He  hat 
not  been  there  for  years,  and  had  no  ac 
quaintances  in  particular.  The  solicitors  o:' 
his  father  were  the  ones  from  whom  he  hope 
to  find  out  something,  though  what  that  some 
thing  might  be  he  hardly  knew.  He  did  no 
know  what  course  of  action  might  be  require 
on  his  own  part.  He  did  not  know  whethe 
it  would  be  best  to  carry  on  the  work  whic 
he  had  before  him  in  secret,  or  to  brea 
through  that  law  of  silence  which  he  had  im 


posed  on  himself  since  his  wife's  death.    He 
held  himself  in  readiness  to  adopt  whatever 
course  might  be  best  for  the  fulfilment  of  the 
rork  in  which  he  was  engaged. 

His  first  act  was  to  go  to  the  house  in 
./hich  Mr.  Wyverne  had  lived.  Upon  reach- 
ng  it,  he  found  it  closed.  It  was  evident, 
herefore,  that  Bessie  Mordaunt  must  be 
ought  for  elsewhere. 

He  then  thought  of  Mrs.  Klein,  and  at 
nee  drove  off  to  visit  her.  The  address 
rhich  Inez  had  given  him  enabled  him  to 
md  her  without  difficulty,  as  she  was  still 
iving  in  the  same  place. 

Although  Inez  had  given  him  a  very  good 
dea  of  her  interview  with  Mrs.  Klein,  still 
he  sight  of  the  «ld  woman  was  somewhat 
disheartening  to  one  who  came,  like  Kane 
Hellmuth,  in  the  character  of  an  investigator 
after  truth,  and  an  eager  questioner.  It  was 
not  the  bottle  at  her  elbow,  nor  her  bleary 
eyes,  nor  her  confused  manner,  that  troubled 
him.  For  this  he  was  prepared.  It  was 
jather  the  attitude  which  Mrs.  Klein  chose  to 
take  up  toward  him.  She  threw  at  him  one 
look  of  sharp,  cunning  suspicion,  as  he  an 
nounced  to  her  that  he  had  come  to  ask  her 
a  few  questions,  and  then  obstinately  refused 
to  answer  a  single  word. 

The  fact  is,  Kane  Hellmuth  was  a  bad 
diplomatist,  and  soon  perceived  that  he  had 
made  a  mistake.  This  he  hastened  to  rectify 
in  a  way  which  seemed  to  him  best  adapted 
to  mollify  one  of  Mrs.  Klein's  appearance, 
which  was  the  somewhat  coarse  but  at  the 
same  time  very  efficacious  offer  of  a  sover 
eign. 

The  effect  was  magical. 
Her  fat,   flabby  fingers   closed    lovingly 
around  it ;  and  she  surveyed  Kane  Hellmuth 
with  a  mild,  maternal  look,  which  beamed 
benevolently    upon    him    from    her    watery 

eyes. 

"  Deary  me ! "  she  said  ;  "  and  you  such  a 
'andsome  young  gentleman,  as  is  comin'  to 
visit  a  poor  old  creetur  as  is  deserted  by  all 
kith  and  kin,  which  it's  truly  lavish  and  boun 
tiful  you  are  as  ever  was,  and  him  as  gives  to 
the  poor  lends  to  the  Lord,  and  may  it  be 
restored  to  you  a  'undredfold,  with  my  'umble 
dooty,  and  prayer  that  your  days  may  be  long 
in  the  land,  for  evermore,  and  me  a  'oman  as 
has  seen  better  days,  which  I'm  now  brought 
down  to  this ;  and  many  thanks,  my  kind, 
kind  gentleman,  for  all  your  kindness  shown." 


A  FKESH  INVESTIGATION. 


"  See  here,  now,  Mrs.  Klein,"  said  Kane 
Hellmuth,  sharply — "  gather  up  your  wits,  if 
you  can.  I  want  you  to  answer  one  or  two 
questions.  You  know  all  about  Hennigar 
Wyverne's  family." 

Mrs.  Klein  gave  a  sigh : 
"  Which  'im  as  is  dead  and  gone,  and  was 
the  kindest  and  mildest-mannered  gentleman 
as  ever  I  sot  heyes  on,  and  allus  treated  me 
that  generous  that  I  could  have  blacked  his 
boots  for  very  love,  and  his — " 

"  All  right.     Now,  see  here.     There  was 

Inez  Mordaunt,  that  lived  in  his  house " 

"  Miss  Hiny — my  own  sweet  child  aliv 
and  me  that  loved  her  like — " 

"  Oh,  of  course.  You  see  I  know  all  about 
her.  But  I  want  to  ask  you  about  another. 
Who  is  this  other  girl  that  lived  at  Mr. 
Wyverne's,  and  called  herself  Bessie  Mor 
daunt  ?  " 

"Which  there  never  was  no  girl  called 
Bessie,  and  she  didn't  live  there.  She  wag 
sent  off  to  France,  and  her  a  young  thing  as 
had  just  lost  her  mother.  '  For  my  part,  I  al 
lus  says  to  Mr.  Wyverne— says  I,  '  Sir,'  says 
I,  '  Miss  Clara's  too  young  to — '  " 

"Clara!"  exclaimed  Hellmuth,  with  a 
strange  intonation.  "  What  became  of  Ler  ? 
Tell  me— tell  me— tell  me  !  " 

Mrs.  Klein  gave  a  doleful  sigh,  and  shook 
her  head  solemnly. 

"  Which  she's  dead  and  gone,  and  is  a 
blessed  angel  these  many  years,  kind  sir ;  and 
beggiu'  yer  humble  pardon,  but  it's  better  for 
her  as  is  far  away  from  a  world  of  sin  and 
woe,  and  all  the  chances  and  chanjues  of  this 
mortial  spere.  And  I  allus  said  as — " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Hellmuth,  with  some  im 
patience,  hastily  changing  the  conversation. 
"But  this  one  I  mean  called  herself  Bes 
sie." 

Mrs.  Klein  shook  her  head. 
"  She  was  named  Clara — I  don't  know  any 
Bessie— and  I  take  my  Bible  oath— and  never 
fear—" 

"  She  may  have  come  to  the  house  after 
you  left." 

"  And  very  likely,  and  me  'as  allus,  kind 
sir,  kep'  that  house  that  orderly  as  was  beau 
tiful  to  be'old ;  but  what  goin's  on  there  was 
there  after  I  left,  Lord  only  knows,  an'  Mr. 
Wyverne  that  mild  that  anybody  could  im 
pose  on  'im  same  as  if  he  was  a  new-born 
babe—" 

"  Do  you  know  a  man  named  Kevin  Ma- 


grath  ?  »  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  rigidly  holding 
her  to  the  points  about  which  he  wished  to 
question  her,  and  checking  her  headlono-  ffar, 
rulity. 

Mrs.  Klein  looked  at  him  with  a  bleary 
gaze,  and  again  wagged  her  fat  old  head. 

"  Won't  you  take  somethin'  warm,  kind 
sir  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth.     "  But  about 
Kevin  Magrath — can  you  tell  me  any  thing  ?  " 
Mrs.  Klein  poured  out  a  glass  of  liquor, 
and  slowly  swallowed  it.     Then  she  smacked 
her  lips.     Then  she  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  'Im,"  said  she,  "  as  was  the  serpent  that 
stole  into  that  Heden,  and  me  allus  tellin'  Mr. 
Wyverne.  Says  I,  'Sir,  beware;  Vll  put 
your  neck  inside  the  gallus'-noose.'  And 
where  he  came  and  where  he  went  I  do  not 
know,  nor  can  tell,  savin'  an'  except  as  he 
wos  a  willain— a  out-an'-outer— and  me  as 
knows  no  more  about  him  than  that." 

Mrs.  Klein  evidently  could  say  nothing 
about  Magrath  more  definite  than  this.  Kane 
Hellmuth  questioned  her  again  and  again,  but 
the  answer  was  always  of  the  same  kind.  His 
visit  here  seemed,  therefore,  a  failure,  and  he 
felt  inclined  to  retire  and  leave  Mrs.  Klein 
alone  with  the  beloved  society  of  her  bottle. 
But  he  had  one  question  yet  to  ask,  and  upon 
her  answer  to  this  very  much  depended. 

"  See  here,"  said  he.  "  Can  you  tell  me 
any  thing  more  about  Bernal  Mordaunt? 
Where  did  he  come  from  ?  Who  was  he  ?  " 

Mrs.  Klein  seemed  to  rouse  herself  at  this 
last  question.  She  looked  at  him  with  less 
stupidity  in  her  sodden,  boozy  face. 

"  Which  as  hevery  one  knows,"  said  she, 
and  I  wonders  much  as  'ow  hever  a  fine 
gentleman  like  you  turns  up  and  'as  never 
'card  of  Bernal  Mordaunt.  They  kept  it  close 
from  Clara,  and  made  out  as  'ow  it  was  'er 
huncle's  'ome,  or  second  cousin,  and  hit  'er 
father's  hown  place,  and  one  of  the  grandest 
and  gorgeousest  in  the  kingdom;  for,  as  I 
allus  says,  'tisn't  hevery  girl  as  has  a  in'er- 
itance  like  Mordaunt  Manor." 

"Mordaunt  Manor!"  cried  Kane  Hell- 
muth. 

He  shrunk  away  from  the  old  woman,  and 
sat  looking  at  her  with  a  pale  face  and  glow 
ing  eyes. 

"  Mordaunt 


Manor,  as  hever  was,"  said 
Mrs.  Klein,  "which  I  knowed  it  all  along, 
and  pore  Mr.  Wyverne,  as  is  dead  and  gone, 
knowed  as  I  knowed  it,  though  them  children 


144 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


were  that  lied  to  that  they  didn't  know  their 
own  father's  'ouse." 

"  Mordaunt  Manor  I "  exclaimed  Kane  Hell- 
muth  again,  upon  whom  this  information  had 
produced  a  most  extraordinary  effect.  "In 
what  county?" 

"Mordaunt  Manor  as  is  in  Cumberland 
County— which  there  never  was  but  one  Mor 
daunt  "Manor,  as  anybody  hever  'eard  hon." 

Kane  Hellmuth  started  to  his  feet.  He 
had  heard  enough.  His  mind  was  made  up 
to  'some  sudden  course,  revealed  by  this  new 
information.  He  left  abruptly,  and  hurried 
back  to  his  hotel. 

That  evening  he  was  hurrying  on  by  ex 
press  out  of  London  toward  the  north. 


CHAPTER  XXXY. 

THE     TWO     BROTHERS, 


THE  sudden  resolution  which  Kane  Hell 
muth  had  taken  was  not  without  a  sufficient 
cause.     The  connection  which  Mrs.  Klein's 
information  had  established  between  the  chil 
dren  of  Bernal  Mordaunt  and  Mordaunt  Manor 
gave  rise  to  numerous  suspicions  in  his  mind. 
If  they  were  the  heiresses  of  Mordaunt  Manor, 
then  there  was  supplied  that  which  his  mind 
had  long  sought  after — namely,  a  motive  for 
the  plot  against  Inez,  and  for  that  plot  in 
which  it  now  appeared  that  Clara  had  been 
involved.     Yet,  if  this  were  so,  why  had  not 
Clara  known  it?      If  Mordaunt   Manor  was 
her  home,  why  had  she  never  said  so  ?     The 
only  answer  to  this  lay  in  Mrs.  Klein's  inco 
herent  remarks  about  "  lies  "  which  were  told 
her,  so  that  she  didn't  know  her  own  father's 
house.     She  may  have  left  it  at  so  early  an 
age  that  she  had  no  certainty  about  its  being 
her  home,  and  afterward  may  have  been  made 
to  believe  that  it    belonged  to   some   one 
else. 

In  any  case,  however,  it  now  seemed  to 
Kane  Hellmuth  that  Mordaunt  Manor  it 
self  was  the  best  place  for  him  to  go  to.  If 
it  belonged  to  Bernal  Mordaunt,  he  himself 
would  be  more  likely  to  be  there  than  any 
where  else;  and,  if  he  was  not  there,  he 
might  find  out  where  he  really  was.  If  Kevin 
Magrath's  plot  really  had  reference  to  this 
he  might  possibly  find  out  there  somethin 
about  him.  Or,  if  neither  of  these  could  b 
found,  there  was  a  remote  probability  that  h 


might  hear  something  about  Bessie.  For  all 
these  reasons,  then,  and  for  others  which  will 
afterward  appear,  Mordaunt  Manor  seemed  to 
him  to  be  by  far  the  best  place  that  could  be 
found  for  a  centre  of  operations. 

On  reaching  Keswick  he  stopped  at  the 
inn,  where  he  obtained  answers  to  all  the 
questions  that  he  chose  to  ask;  and  these 
answers  filled  him  with  amazement.  In 
these  answers  there  was  communicated  to 
him  a  number  of  facts  \\hich  were  incompre 
hensible,  bewildering,  overwhelming! 

The  first  thing  that  he  learned  was  that 
Bernal  Mordaunt  had  returned  home  after  an 
absence  of  years,  and,  after  a  brief  decline, 
had  died  there. 

Moreover,  he  had  been  welcomed  home 
by  his  daughter. 

This  daughter  had  herself  come  home  but 
a  short  time  before,  after  an  absence  of 
years. 

Tl^  daughter  had  cheered  the  declining 
.ays  of  the  feeble  old  man,  had  given  her- 
elf  up  to  him  with  a  devotion  and  a  tender 
ove  that  was  almost  superhuman.  In  that 
ove  the  old  man  had  solaced  himself,  and  he 
tad  died  in  her  loving  arms. 

Moreover,  the  name  of  this  daughter  was 
rnez  Mordaunt  I 

This  Inez  Mordaunt  had  filled  men  of 
every  degree  with  admiration  for  her  beauty, 
icr  fascinating  grace,  her  accessibility,  her 
generosity,  and,  above  all,  for  her  tender  love 
and  unparalleled  devotion  to  her  aged  fa 
ther. 

This  Inez  Mordaunt  also  had  married  a 
man  who  was  worthier  of  her  than  any  other ; 
he  was  also  a  resident  of  the  county,  and  thus 
she  would  not  be  lost  to  the  society  which 
admired  her  so  greatly  and  so  justly.  Her 
father  had  hastened  on  the  marriage  before 
his  death,  so  that  he  should  not  leave  her 
alone  in  the  world.  Even  after  her  marriage 
this  noble  daughter  showed  the  same  death 
less  devotion  to  that  father  for  whom  she  had 
done  so  much. 

The  happy  man  who  had  won  so  noble  a 
woman  for  his  wife  was  Sir  Gwyn  Ruthven, 
of  Ruthven  Towers. 

All  this  is  familiar  to  the  reader,  but  all 
was  not  familiar  to  Kane  Hellmuth.  One  by 
one  these  facts  came  to  him  like  so  many  suc 
cessive  blows— blows  of  tremendous  power- 
blows  resistless,  bewildering,  overwhelming, 
falling  upon  his  soul  in  ever-accumulating 


THE   TWO   BROTHERS. 


145 


force,  until  the  last  one  descended  and  left 
him  in  a  state  of  utter  confusion  and  help 
less  uncertainty. 

With  the  first  fact  he  was  able  to  grappL. 
It  was  intelligible  that  Bernal  Mordaunt  had, 
after  all,  come  home,  here,  to  Mordaunt 
Manor.  It  was  intelligible  that  he  had  reached 
his  home  weak  and  worn  out ;  and  that  he 
had  died.  It  was  intelligible  and  probable 
that  Bernal  Mordaunt  was  now  dead,  and 
buried,  and  that  his  remains  were  actually  in 
the  family  vaults  of  Mordaunt  Manor. 

So  far,  so  good;  but  now,  when  Kane 
Hellmuth  advanced  thus  far  on  this  solid 
ground,  and  looked  out  beyond,  he  found 
every  thing  misty,  gloomy,  uncertain,  chaotic, 
and  unintelligible. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  this  daughter  ? 
She  had  reached  home  not  long  before  her 
father.  He  had  recognized  her.  He  had 
found  happiness  in  her.  Her  love  and  devo 
tion  for  him  was  spoken  of  as  something 
nearly  superhuman.  Had  Bernal  Mordaunt, 
then,  another  daughter  ? 

The  name  of  this  daughter  was  Inez  Mor 
daunt. 

Inez  Mordaunt!  But  he  had  left  Inez 
Mordaunt  in  Paris,  where  she  had  been  de 
coyed  by  letters  forged  in  the  name  of  her 
father,  Bernal  Mordaunt.  What  Inez  Mor 
daunt  was  this  ? 

Could  his  Inez— his  sister  Inez — be  mis 
taken  ?  Impossible.  His  Inez  was  the  sis 
ter  of  his  Clara.  The  likeness  between  them 
was  so  extraordinary  that  he  had  stopped  her 
in  the  street,  and  carried  her  senseless  to  his 
lodgings.  Since  then  he  had  heard  her  whole 
story.  He  had  the  testimony  of  Mrs.  Klein 
to  the  identity  of  his  Inez  with  her  who  was 
once  called  Inez  Wyverne.  His  Inez  was  the 
sister  of  his  lost  Clara  beyond  a  doubt. 

Were  they,  or  were  they  not,  the  children 
of  Bernal  Mordaunt?  He  knew  that  they 
must  be.  His  Clara  was,  he  knew ;  and  that 
Inez  was,  he  also  knew. 

Could  there  be  two  Bernal  Mordaunts  ? 
One,  the  father  of  his  Inez ;  the  other,  the 
father  of  this  strange  Inez  here?  Impossi 
ble.  Mrs.  Klein's  testimony  pointed  to  Mor- 
daunt  Manor  as  the  home  of  Clara  and  of 
Inez.  But,  if  so,  why  had  not  his  Clara 
known  this  in  her  life  ?  Or  was  a  creature 
like  Mrs.  Klein  to  be  trusted  in  anything 
whatever  ?  Might  he  not  have  come  here  on 
a  fool's  errand  ? 


No. 


The  answer  to  this  lay  in  Kevin  Ma- 
grath's  plots,  and  in  the  fact  that  Mordaunt 
Manor  alone  formed  a  sufficient  cause  and 
motive  for  them.  Without  Mordaunt  Manor 
he  was  an  insane  schemer;  with  Mordaunt 
Manor  he  was  a  villain  aiming  at  a  magnificent 
prize. 

But,  if  this  was  so,  what  part  had  he  in 
the  magnificent  prize  ?  Was  it  not  already 
held  by  this  other  Inez,  this  wonder  among 
women,  this  pious  daughter,  this  paragon? 
And  what  was  there  in  common  between  her 
and  one  like  Kevin  Magrath?  Yet  Bernal 
Mordaunt  had  come  home,  from  his  years  of 
exile  and  sorrow,  to  Mordaunt  Manor,  and 
there  was  his  daughter  Inez  to  welcome  him 
his  daughter  whom  he  loved,  and  in  whose 
arms  he  died. 

But  beyond  all  these  bewildering  and  con 
tradictory  facts  lay  another  which  produced 
upon  Kane  Hellmuth's  mind  an  effect  so 
strong  that  it  may  be  called  the  climax  of 
them  all. 

This  Inez  Mordaunt  had  married  Gwyn 
Rulhven.  They  were  living  now  at  Ruthven 
Towers. 

Over  this,  Kane  Hellmuth  brooded  long 
and  solemnly.  In  this  last  fact  he  saw  that 
which  would  open  to  him  a  way  by  which 
all  the  others  would  be  made  plain.  Yet  the 
way  was  not  one  which  he  would  have  chosen. 
He  would  rather  have  tried  any  other  way. 
It  came  in  opposition  to  his  self-inflicted 
punishment.  It  would  terminate  the  silence 
of  years.  It  would  put  an  end  to  that  seclu 
sion  in  which  he  had  thrust  himself,  and 
draw  upon  him  the  glare  of  day.  Thus  far 
he  had  been,  as  he  called  himself,  a  dead  man 
— this  would  force  him  to  rise  from  the  dead. 
This  was  not  what  he  wished.  But  it  was 
too  late  to  go  back.  He  had  set  forth  in  this 
path.  The  way  now  lay  straight  before  him 
to  Ruthven  Towers,  to  Gwyn  Ruthven  and  his 
wife,  who  had  called  herself  Inez  Mordaunt. 
Could  he  now  turn  back  ?  Dare  he  do  it  ? 

He  dare  not.  For  the  sake  of  Inez,  whose 
wrongs  were  still  in  his  mind,  for  the  sake  of 
his  lost  wife,  who  also  had  suffered  wrongs 
that  seemed  to  have  come  from  the  same 
source  from  which  had  flowed  the  wrongs  of 
Inez ;  for  his  own  sake,  too ;  for  every  reason 
that  can  animate  a  man  to  action  he  felt 
himself  impelled  to  go  onward,  and  to  pene- 
trate  this  mystery. 


146 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


Now,  Kane  Hellmuth  was  a  man  who, 
when  he  had  once  resolved  on  any  course, 
had  no  other  idea  in  his  mind  than  a  simple, 
straightforward,  and  tenacious  pursuit  of  it 
till  his  purpose  might  be  accomplished. 

Had  this  other  Inez  Mordaunt  still  been 
unmarried,  he  would  have  avoided  Gwyn 
Ruthven.  He  would  have  gone  to  her.  He 
would  have  seen  her,  and  questioned  her,  and 
thus  have  satisfied  himself,  if  satisfaction  had 
"been  possible.  But  she  was  now  the  wife  of 
Gwyn  Ruthven.  Her  identity  was  merged  in 
his.  He  could  not  go  and  interrogate  the 
•wife  apart  from  the  husband.  The  only  way 
to  the  wife  lay  through  the  husband.  To  the 
husband,  therefore,  he  must  go ;  and  so  Kane 
Hellmuth,  on  this  day,  set  forth  for  Ruthven 
Towers  and  Gwyn  Ruthven. 
He  rode  on  horseback. 
He  was  scarce  conscious  of  the  scenery 
around  him  as  he  rode  along,  though  that 
scenery  was  woudrously  beautiful.  He  was 
considering  what  might  be  the  best  course  of 
action. 

By  the  time  that  he  reached  the  gate  of 
Ruthven  Towers  he  had  decided.  After  this, 
he  was  less  preoccupied.  He  passed  through 
the  gates.  He  looked  all  around  with  strange 
feelings.  He  rode  up  the  long  avenue.  He 
dismounted.  He  entered  Ruthven  Towers. 

On  inquiry,  he  learned  that  Sir  Gwyn 
Ruthven  was  at  home.  He  gave  his  name, 
and  was  shown  to  a  large  room  on  the  right. 
He  entered  and  waited. 

He  did  not  have  to  wait  long.  Sir  Gwyn 
was  prompt,  and  soon  came  down  to  see  his 
visitor. 

Kane  Hellmuth  was  standing  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  room.  Sir  Gwyn,  on  entering, 
bowed  courteously.  Kane  bowed  also.  Then 
Sir  Gwyn  seemed  to  be  struck  by  something 
in  the  appearance  of  his  visitor.  He  looked 
hard  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  he  looked 
away,  then  he  looked  again,  this  time  with 
an  air  of  perplexity.  Kane,  on  his  part, 
looked  at  Sir  Gwyn,  and  his  stern  face  soft 
ened.  Indeed,  Sir  Gwyn  was  one  upon  whom 
no  one  could  look  without  a  sense  of  pleas 
ure.  It  was  not  because  he  was  what  is 
called  handsome,  not  on  account  of  any  mere 
regularity  of  feature,  but  rather  on  account 
of  a  certain  fresh,  honest,  frank  expression 
that  reigned  there;  because  of  the  clear, 
open  gaze,  the  broad,  white  brow,  the  air 
of  high  breeding  mingled  also  with  a  boyish 


heartiness  and  simplicity.  Sir  Gwyn,  in 
short,  had  that  air  which  is  so  attractive  in  a 
high-bred  boy  of  the  best  type— the  air  of 
naturalness,  of  frankness,  of  guilelessness, 
and  generosity.  For  this  reason,  the  hard  look 
died  out  of  Kane  Hellmuth' s  eyes,  and  a 
gentler  and  softer  light  shone  in  them  as  they 
rested  on  Sir  Gwyn. 

"  I  hope  you  will  excuse  me  for  troubling 
you,  Sir  Gwyn,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  at 
length,  "but  I  have  come  a  great  distance 
for  the  purpose  of  making  some  inquiries  at 
Mordaunt  Manor.  I  had  no  idea  that  Mr. 
Mordaunt  was  dead  until  my  arrival  here; 
and,  as  my  business  is  of  the  utmost  impor 
tance,  I  have  thought  it  probable  that  I 
might  obtain  the  information  that  I  wish 
from  yourself,  or  from  Lady  Ruthven." 

At  the  sound  of  Kane  Hellmuth' s  voice, 
Sir  Gwyn  gave  a  start  and  frowned,  and  lis 
tened  with  a  puzzled  expression.  He  was 
evidently  much  perplexed  about  something, 
and  he  himself  could  scarcely  tell  what  that 
something  was. 

"I'm  sure,"  said  he,  "that  both  Lady 
Ruthven  and  myself  will  be  happy  to  give 
you  any  information  that  we  can." 

"  It  all  refers,"  continued  Kane  Hellmuth, 
"  to  the  life  of  Mr.  Mordaunt  after  his  return 
home.  I  am  well  aware  of  his  long  absence. 
Since  his  return,  however,  it  is  very  probable 
that  he  has  spoken  of  these  things  about 
which  I  wish  to  ask." 

"  Very  probably,"  said  Sir  Gwyn,  slowly, 
with  perplexity  still  in  his  face.  "He  was 
very  communicative  to  me." 

"  What  I  should  like  to  ask  first,"  said 
Kane  Hellmuth,  "  refers  to  an  affair  at  Ville- 
neuve.  Did  Mr.  Mordaunt  ever  mention  to 
you  any  thing  about  the  death  of  Mr.  Wyverne 
at  that  place  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  told  me  all  about  it." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth.  "  What 
I  wished  to  know  was  whether  it  was  the 
same  Mr.  Mordaunt.  I  did  not  know  but 
that  it  might  have  been  another  person.  He 
did  not  give  his  name,  and  it  was  only  my 
conjecture  that  it  was  he." 

"  It  was  Mr.  Mordaunt  himself,"  said  Sir 
Gwyn.  "He  told  me  all  about  that  occur- 
rence,  and  also  all  about  his  past  connection 
with  Mr.  Wyverne." 

This  reply  settled  one  thing ;  namely,  the 
identity  of  this  Bernal  Mordaunt  with  the  fa- 
ther  of  his  Inez. 


THE  TWO  BROTHERS. 


147 


"Thanks,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth;  "and 
now  I  wish  to  ask  one  or  two  other  things. 
They  refer  to  his  family.  They  concern  my 
self  very  nearly,  or  I  should  not  ask  them. 
They  are  only  of  a  general  character.  Would 
you  have  any  objections  to  tell  me  how  many 
children  Mr.  Mordaunt  had  ?  " 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Sir  Gwyn.  "He 
had  two  daughters,  that  is  all.  The  name  of 
the  oldest  was  Clara." 

"  Clara ! "  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  in  a 
strange  voice. 

"  The  other  one,"  continued  Sir  Gwyn, 
"was  named  Inez." 

"Is  — Clara  — alive  yet?"  asked  Kane 
Hellmuth,  in  a  tremulous  voice. 

"No,"  said  Sir  Gwyn,  "she  died  ten 
years  ago." 

"  Ah  !  and  the  younger  one,  I  presume,  is 
still  alive  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  younger  one  is  Lady  Ruthven, 
my  wife." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Kane  Hellmuth. 
He  had  h^rd  this  before.  It  was  now 
confirmed.  The  problem  remained  a  prob 
lem  still,  but  he  had  advanced  somewhat 
nearer  to  a  solution,  for  the  very  reason  that 
he  had  approached  so  much  nearer  to  the 
one  who  had  called  herself  Inez  Mordaunt. 
This  was  her  husband.  He  had  no  doubt 
whatever  of  the  truth  of  the  intelligence 
which  he  was  giving  to  his  visitor 

"  One  thing  more,  Sir  Gwyn,"  said  Kane 
Hellmuth,  "  I  really  must  apologize  for  the 
trouble  that  I  am  giving  you,  and  I  hope  you 
will  not  suppose  that  I  am  asking  out  of 
nothing  better  than  idle  curiosity.  What  I 
now  wish  to  ask  refers  to  your  own  family — 
your  own  brothers." 

Kane  Hellmuth  paused.  Again  Sir  Gwyn 
looked  at  him  with  that  perplexity  on  his 
face  which  had  already  appeared  there.  The 
two  thus  looked  at  one  another  earnestly. 
Kane  Hellmuth  felt  a  pang  of  sadness  as  he 
looked  at  that  noble  and  generous  face,  and 
thought  that  he  might  be  the  means  of  in 
flicting  pain  upon  one  who  did  not  merit  it ; 
but  his  task  had  to  be  done,  and  went  on : 

"  There  were  three  of  you,  I  think,"  said 
he ;  "  Bruce,  Kane,  and  yourself." 

Sir  Gwyn  bowed  in  silence.  The  perplex 
ity  of  his  face  was  now  greater  than  ever. 

"Bruce  died  at  home,  I  believe,"  con 
tinued  Kane  Hellmuth,  "and  Kane  died  in 
Paris." 


"  No,"  said  Sir  Gwyn. 
"  I  have  understood  so." 
"  Mr.— ah— Hellmuth,"    said    Sir  Gwyn, 
earnestly.     "  Tell  me  truly,  were  you  ever  ac 
quainted  with  my  brother  Kane  ?  " 
Kane  Hellmuth  hesitated. 
"  Yes,"    said  he,  slowly,  "  I  was,  about 
ten  years  ago,  in  Paris." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  he  is  dead  ?  "  asked 
Sir  Gwyn,  sharply  and  eagerly.  "I  don't. 
I  never  did,"  he  continued.  "I  tell  you  I 
have  tried  everywhere  to  find  him.  Look 
here,  there's  something  confoundedly  queer 
about  you,  do  you  know?  odd,  isn't  it?  but 
it  seems  to  me  that  we've  met  before,  but 
hang  me  if  I  can  remember  where.  I  tell  you 
I've  done  every  thing  to  find  my  brother 
Kane.  I've  advertised.  I've  sent  out  agents. 
I  don't  believe  he's  dead,  and  I  hope  to  meet 
him  yet.  By  Jove !  And,  see  here,  if  you 
should  ever  get  on  his  track,  tell  him  this  from 
me:  That  I  am  waiting  for  him,  that  I  am 
holding  this  place  for  him,  that  I'd  give  it  all 
up— estate,  title,  all,  for  the  sake  of  seeing 
him  once  more.  Yes,  by  Heaven  !  I  would; 
and  if  I  only  knew  where  he  was  now  I'd  go 
to  find  him  if  I  had  to  risk  my  life.  I  say 
this  to  you  because,  do  you  know,  somehow 
you've  got  a  confoundedly  queer  look  about 
you,  and,  by  Jove  !  you  remind  me  of  him 
somehow.  You  don't  happen  to  be  a  relative 
of  the  family  in  any  way,  I  suppose." 

The  tone  in  which  Sir  Gwyn  spoke  was 
the  tone  of  a  big,  honest,  warm-hearted  boy. 
Every  word  went  to  the  very  heart  of  Kane 
Hellmuth.  lie  was  not  prepared  for  this. 
In  the  course  of  his  life  he  had  lost  much  of 
his  faith  in  man,  and  had  accustomed  himself 
to  think  of  his  brother  as  one  who  would  be 
glad  to  hear  of  his  death.  He  had  been  try 
ing  to  make  himself  known  in  a  gradual  way, 
so  as  to  ease  the  blow  which  he  supposed 
would  fall  on  his  brother.  Lo !  now,  to  his 
amazement  and  confusion,  his  brother  stood 
there  offering  to  give  up  all — estates,  title, 
yes,  even  life  itself,  if  he  could  find  him. 

His  head  sank  upon  his  breast.  lie 
struggled  to  keep  down  the  emotion  that  had 
arisen  in  his  soul.  It  was  hard  to  restrain 
himself.  Sir  Gwyn  looked  at  him  in  wonder. 
At  length  Kane  Hellmuth  raised  his  head. 
He  fixed  his  eyes  on  Gwyn  with  a  strange 
meaning.  Then  he  spoke. 

"Gwyn!"  said  he. 

That  was  all. 


148 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


Sir  Gwyn  started.  Then  all  the  truth  in 
a  moment  burst  upon  him. 

"  Oh,  by  Heavens  ! "  he  cried.  "  0  Heav 
ens  !  Kane  !  Kane !  Kane  !  By  Heavens  ! 
Kane  himself!  You  glorious  old  boy!  Didn't 
I  know  you  ?  didn't  I  feel  that  it  was 
you?" 

He  grasped  both  of  Kane's  hands  in  his, 
and  clung  to  them  with  a  fervid,  enthusiastic 
greeting,  wringing  them,  and  shaking  them 
over  and  over. 

u  Kane,  you  dear,  glorious  old  boy,  where 
have  you  been  wandering  ?  and  why  have  you 
stayed  away  so  long  ?  Haven't  you  seen  my 
frantic  advertisements,  imploring  you  to  come 
and  get  your  own  ?  Haven't  I  felt  like  a  thief 
for  years,  holding  all  this  when  you  might  be 
wanting  it?  Ah,  dear  old  boy!  I  know 
what  you  once  had  to  suffer.  And  you  might 
have  let  me  had  a  word  from  you.  You  once 
used  to  think  something  of  me  when  I  was  a 
youngster.  Don't  you  remember  how  I  used 
to  look  up  to  you  as  the  pride,  and  glory,  and 
boast,  of  the  whole  race  of  Kuthvens  ?  You 
must  remember  enough  about  the  youngster 
Gwyn  to  know  that,  whatever  his  faults  were, 
he'd  be  as  true  as  steel  to  you.  Bruce  treated 
you  like  a  devil,  too,  and  I  cursed  him  for  it 
to  his  face;  and  didn't  you  get  my  letter, 
Kane  ?  I  was  only  a  boy  at  school,  and  I 
sent  all  I  had  to  you— my  two  sovereigns — 
all  I  had,  Kane.  It  wasn't  much,  but  I'd 
have  laid  down  my  life  for  you." 

So  Sir  Gwyn  went  on.  He  appeared  to  be 
half  crying,  half  laughing.  He  still  clung  to 
his  brother.  It  was  the  enthusiastic,  the 
wild  delight  of  a  warm-hearted  boy.  As  for 
Kane,  he  stood  overwhelmed.  He  trembled 
from  head  to  foot.  He  tore  one  hand  away, 
and  dashed  it  across  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXXYI. 

RUTHTEN. 

THUS,  then,  it  was  that  Kane  Ruthven 
came  back  to  the  home  of  his  fathers — to 
Ruthven  Towers.  He  was  a  dead  man  no 
longer.  He  was  no  more  Hellmuth,  but 
Ruthven. 

He  had  not  anticipated  such  a  reception. 
He  was  not  prepared  for  such  truth  and 
fidelity — such  an  example  of  a  brother's  love. 
He  was  unmanned.  He  stood  and  wept. 


Yet  life  seemed  sweeter  now  to  him  through 
those  tears. 

"  Dear  boy,"  said  he  at  last,  as  soon  as 
he  had  recovered  himself  somewhat,  "  don't 
talk  to  me  about  the  estate,  or  the  title. 
They  are  yours.  Do  you  think  I  came  back 
for  them  ?  They  are  yours,  and  they  shall  be 
yours.  I  gave  them  up  years  ago.  I  saw 
your  notices,  but  I  was  not  going  to  come 
back  here.  Things  had  happened  which 
made  wealth  and  rank  of  no  importance.  I 
have  as  much  money  as  I  want.  I  don't  care 
about  a  title.  You  shall  remain  as  you  are 
now,  and  so  will  I." 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  will ! "  cried  Gwyn. 
"  I  tell  you,  this  estate  and  title  have  been 
bothering  me  out  of  my  life." 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  make  out  a  paper  trans 
ferring  every  thing  to  you." 

"  You  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"I  will.  You  don't  know  how  I  am  situ 
ated." 

"  I  swear  you  shan't.  You  are  the  head 
of  the  Ruthvens,  and  I  glory>in  you,  and  I 
long  to  see  you  in  your  place,  old  boy." 

"  No,  Gwyn — my  own  place  is  a  very  dif 
ferent  one.  I  have  lived  my  life.  I  didn't 
come  back  to  interfere  with  yours." 

"  It's  no  interference.  Come  now,  Kane, 
don't  be  absurd.  It's  all  yours,  you  know," 

"  Very  well,  and  I  hereby  make  it  all  over 
to  you." 

"  I  won't  take  it." 

"  You  must.  I'll  make  out  the  necessary 
papers,  and  then  go  back  to  my  lair  that  I've 
just  come  out  of." 

"What's  that?  What!"  cried  Gwyn. 
"  Go  back !  Why,  you  won't  go  back  ?  You 
have  come  home  now  for  good,  Kane — haven't 
you?  Go  back?  No,  never!  You  are  here 
now,  and  here  you  must  stay." 

"  Oh,  you  may  be  sure,  dear  boy,  we'll  see 
one  another  often  after  this ;  but,  for  my  part, 
I  have  a  work  to  accomplish  which  will  re 
quire  all  my  care  for  some  time  to  come,  and, 
at  present,  I'm  still  Kane  Hellmuth." 

"  Hellmuth  !  what  preposterous  nonsense ! 
You're  Sir  Kane  Ruthven  of  Ruthven  Tower 
and  you  shall  remain  so." 

"  No,  Gwyn,  my  purpose  is  fixed  and  un 
alterable.  I  care  nothing  for  such  things. 
You  can  enjoy  them.  I  have  as  much  money 
as  I  wish.  I  need  nothing  more.  You  have 
your  position,  and  there  is  your  wife." 

"My    wife!"    exclaimed    Gwyn.      "Ah, 


RUTHVEX. 


149 


Kane,  you  little  know  her.     Oh,  how  she  will 
rejoice  over  this !     Oh,  she  knows  all  about 
it !    I've  told  her  all.     Oh,  how  glad  Bessie 
will  be !     Oh,  how  Bessie  will  rejoice !  " 
"  Bessie ! " 

This  exclamation  burst  forth  from  Kane 
involuntarily.  His  voice  was  harsh  and  grat 
ing.  He  stood  with  staring  eyes  and  averted 
face.  The  utterance  of  that  one  name — 
"  Bessie  " — had  been  sufficient  to  overturn  all 
his  thoughts,  and  thrust  him  back  into  his 
old  bewilderment  and  gloom.  Like  lightning, 
a  thousand  thoughts  swept  through  his  mind, 
quickened  into  instant  life  by  that  one  name. 
This  revealed  all. 

"  The  false  Inez  who  had  married  his  brother 
was  Bessie.     Bessie  who  ?     Bessie  Mordaunt 
— the  friend — of  the  true  Inez ;  the  Bessie  to 
whom  she  had  written,  but  who  had  refused 
to  answer  those  letters  of  despair— Bessie ! " 
Gwyn  noticed  the  change. 
"  What's  the  matter,  Kane  ?  "  he  asked, 
anxiously. 

Kane  drew  a  long  breath. 
"  Oh,  nothing !  "  said  he.     "  By  the  way — 
what   do  you  mean  by  'Bessie.'     I  thought 
your  wife's  name  was  Inez." 

"  So  it  is,  but  it  is  Bessie  also.  Her  full 
name  is  Inez  Elizabeth  Mordaunt.  She  waa 
living  with  the  Wyvernes,  however,  at  Lon 
don,  you  know,  where  I  first  became  acquaint 
ed  with  her,  and  they  all  called  her  Bessie  to 
prevent  confusion,  for  there  was  another  Inez 
—Inez  Wyverne— a  distant  relative  of  hers. 
So,  I  knew  her  as  Bessie,  and  I've  called 
her  Bessie  ever  since.  Inez  is  a  pretty  name, 
but  it  seems  unfamiliar  to  me." 

All  this  was  terrible  to  Kane.  It  con-' 
firmed  what  had  been  told  him.  Inez  Wy 
verne  was  Inez  Mordaunt.  Bessie  had  taken 
her  place.  Had  Bessie  betrayed  her  ?  Inez 
loved  her  still,  and  trusted  in  her.  Was  it  pos 
sible  that  Bessie  was  a  traitor,  or  had  she  only 
been  mistaken  ?  But,  then,  Bernal  Mordaunt 
must  himself  have  received  Bessie  as  his 
daughter! 

Kane  Ruthven  feared  the  worst.  And 
there  ca.me  to  his  heart  a  sharp  and  sudden 
pang.  If  Bessie  should  prove  to  be  the  trai 
tor,  the  impostor,  which  he  now  imagined 
her  to  be,  then  what  wrong  would  have  been 
done  to  this  noble,  this  generous  heart! 
Here  was  this  true  and  loyal  soul,  this  match 
less  brother,  with  his  faithful  love,  his  un- 
Bullied  nature,  his  young,  pure  life,  linked 


to  one  whose  character  must  be  terrible. 
Could  he  go  on  further  when  his  path  would 
only  serve  to  darken  this  brother's  life  ?  Ho 
shuddered,  he  half  recoiled.  How  could  ho 
dare  ?  His  brother  had  taken  a  serpent  to 
his  bosom.  Could  he  open  his  brother's  eyes, 
and  show  him  all  ? 

Just  at  that  moment,  in  the  midst  of  such 
gloomy  and  such  terrible  thoughts  as  these, 
there  came  a  sound  which  penetrated  like  sud 
den  sunshine  through  all  the  clouds  of  sus 
picion  and  terror  that  were  lowering  over  the 
soul  of  Kane  Ruthven,  a  sudden  sound,  sweet, 
silvery,  musical — a  sound  of  laughter  that 
was  childish  in  its  intonations — a  peal  of 
laughter  that  was  full  of  innocence,  and  gay- 
ety,  and  mirth. 

Then  followed  a  voice — 
"  Aha,  you  runaway !  So,  here  you  are  ! 
and  it's  meself  that's  been  the  heart-broken 
wife.  Really,  I  began  to  think  that  you'd 
deserted  me,  so  I  did.  Come,  sir,  give  an  ac 
count  of  yourself.  How  dare  you  leave  me 
for  a  whole  half-hour ! " 

The  new-comer  suddenly  stopped.  She 
saw  a  stranger  there. 

At  the  first  sound  of  her  silvery,  musical 
laugh,  Kane  Ruthven  started,  and  looked 
up. 

He  saw  before  him  a  vision  of  exquisite 
loveliness.  It  was  a  young  lady — who  looked 
like  a  very  young  girl,  a  blonde,  with  largo 
eyes  of  a  wonderful  blue,  with  a  face  of  in 
describable  piquancy,  with  golden  hair,  flow 
ing  in  rich  masses  over  her  shoulders,  with  a 
dress  of  some  material  as  light  as  gossamer. 
This  was  the  one  whose  laugh  had  penetrated 
to  his  ears,  who  now  came  lightly  forward 
with  these  words  addressed  to  Gwyn. 

Gwyn,  too,  had  started  at  her  entrance. 
At  the  sight  of  her  the  cloud  that  had  come 
over  his  face,  thrown  there  by  the  strange 
gloom  of  Kane,  was  instantly  banished,  and  a 
joyous  light  succeeded.  He  took  the  lady's 
hand,  and  led  her  forward. 

"  Kane,"  said  he,  "  here  she  is— my  own 
Bessie.  0  Bessie!  who  do  you  think  this 
is  ?  You'd  never  guess.  It's  my  dear,  long- 
lost  old  boy — my  brother  Kane." 

The  hand  that  Gwyn  held  suddenly  closed 
convulsively  around  his;  over  the  fair  face 
there  shot,  for  an  instant,  an  expression  of 
pain.  Bessie  shrank  back  involuntarily,  and 
half  raised  her  other  hand,  as  if  to  her  heart. 
Yet  this  was  only  for  an  instant.  It  passed 


150 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


as  suddenly  as  it  had  come.    Kane  did  not 
notice  it,  nor  did  Gwyn. 

"Kane!"  exclaimed  Bessie,  in  a  sweet 
and  gentle  voice ;  "  sure  then  it's  me  own 
brother  he  is  too,  and  oh,  how  glad  I  am ! " 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  a  sweet  smile. 
Kane  took  it,  and  the  smile  on  her  face  drove 
away  the  last  vestige  of  his  gloomy  fears. 
All  evil  suspicions  passed  away.  He  saw 
only  that  perfect  loveliness  and  that  bewitch 
ing  smile ;  he  saw  only  her  charming  grace 
and  captivating  beauty ;  he  saw  only  the  wife 
of  Gwyn,  and  the  friend  of  Inez. 

He  pressed  her  hand  fervently,  and  in  si 
lence. 

"Really,"  said  Bessie,  "do  you  know, 
Gwynnie,  dearest,  you  gave  me  an  awful 
shock,  and  I  haven't  got  over  it  yet.  I  was 
so  awfully  glad,  you  know,  but  it  was  at  the 
same  time  so  awfully  sudden,  you  know ;  and 
oh,  bow  we've  talked  about -this.  I'm  sure  I 
can  hardly  believe  it  is  so,  and  I'm  sure  it's 
awfully  funny  to  find  a  brother  so  suddenly, 
when  you  never  expected  such  a  thing  at  all 
at  all.  And  oh,  but  it's  the  blessed  thing  to 
think  that  our  brother  Kane  should  turn  up 
after  all,  so  it  is." 

She  looked  at.  Kane  as  she  said  this  with 
a  sweet  smile  on  her  face.  Kane  noticed  this, 
and  was  charmed.  He  noticed,  also,  the 
slight  "brogue"  that  was  in  her  tone,  which, 
intermingled  as  it  was  with  the  idiom  pecu 
liar  to  young  ladies,  seemed  to  him  to  be  very 
charming.  He  believed  in  her  at  once.  The 
sight  of  that  face  was  enough.  With  such  a 
being  suspicion  had  simply  nothing  to  do. 
She  herself  was  beyond  all  suspicion.  In  her 
face,  her  manner,  her  tone,  he  could  see  in 
finite  possibilities  for  love,  for  loyalty,  for 
sociability,  for  friendship,  for  fun,  for  droll 
ery,  for  kindliness,  and  for  gracious  self- 
surrender  ;  such  a  one  seemed  a  fit  compan 
ion  for  Inez  or  for  Gwyn ;  but  to  associate 
her,  even  in  thought,  with  such  foul  natures 
as  Kevin  Magrath,  seemed  an  unholy  thing. 

And  so  it  was  that  Kane  Ruthveu  first 
met  Bessie. 

The  expression  of  Kane's  face  was  usually 
an  austere  one.  His  dense  growth  of  crisp 
hair,  his  bushy  eyebrows,  his  heavy  and 
somewhat  neglected  beard,  his  piercing  eyes, 
his  corrugated  brow,  and,  added  to  all  these, 
the  hard  outline  of  his  features,  all  combined 
to  give  him  a  certain  saturnine  grimness, 
which  would  have  been  repellent  had  it  not 


been  for  the  lurking  tenderness  that  shone 
in  his  glance — a  tenderness  which  was  per 
ceptible  enough  to  any  one  who  took  more 
than  a  superficial  observation.  On  the  pres 
ent  occasion,  the  look  with  which  he  regarded 
Bessie  had  all  of  this  tenderness,  and  noth 
ing  of  this  grimness  and  austerity ;  it  was  a 
look  such  as  an  anchorite  might  give  to 
some  child  visitor  straying  near  his  cell, 
whose  approach  might  have  broken  in  upon 
his  solemn  meditations.  To  Kane  Ruthven 
there  seemed  about  Bessie  a  sweetness,  and 
light,  and  sunshine,  which  forced  him  for  a 
time  to  come  forth  out  of  his  usual  gloom. 

"  Sure,  and  it's  quite  like  the  parable  of 
the  prodigal  son  entirely,"  said  Bessie ;  "  only 
of  course,  you  know,  I  don't  mean  to  say  that 
you  were  a  prodigal  son,  brother  Kane ;  and 
then,  too,  in  the  parable,  it  was  the  younger 
son  that  was  the  prodigal,  but  you're  the 
older,  so  you  are ;  now  isn't  he,  Gwynnie, 
dearest  ?  But,  'deed,  and  it's  no  matter  which, 
for  it's  only  the  joy  over  the  return  that  I 
was  thinking  of,  so  it  was,  and  sure  we'll  kill 
the  fatted  calf  and  be  merry,  as  they  did  in 
the  parable.  I  feel."  she  added,  with  an 
absurd  look  of  perplexity,  "  that  my  compar 
ison  is  hopelessly  mixed  up,  but  then  my  in 
tentions  are  honorable,  you  know." 

As  Bessie  said  this,  she  stole  her  hand 
toward  that  of  Gwyn,  and  inserted  it  con 
fidingly  in  his,  quite  in  the  manner  of  a  fond 
young  bride,  who  is  confident  of  the  attach 
ment  of  her  husband,  and  upon  whose  mar 
riage  still  exists  something  of  the  bloom  of 
the  honeymoon.  Gwyn,  on  his  part, -did  not 
fail  to  reciprocate  this  tender  advance,  and 
his  hand  clasped  hers  lovingly,  and  the  two 
stood  thus  opposite  Kane,  indulging  in  this 
pardonable  little  bit  of  sentimentality,  or 
spooneyism,  or  whatever  else  the  reader  may 
choose  to  call  it,  quite  regardless  of  his  pres 
ence.  Upon  Kane,  however,  this  little  ac 
tion,  which  was  not  unobserved  by  him,  did 
not  produce  any  unpleasant  effect,  but  rather 
the  opposite,  "it  seemed  to  him  to  be  a 
beautiful  picture— the  young  husband,  with 
his  frank,  open,  gentle,  and  noble  face ;  the 
fair  young  bride,  with  her  fragile  beauty,  and 
the  golden  glory  of  her  flowing  hair— these 
two  thus  standing  side  by  side,  with  hands 
clasped  in  holy  love  and  tenderness. 

Kane  felt  softened  more  and  more,  and 
this  scene  roused  within  his  mind  memories 
drawn  from  his  own  past;  memories  of  a 


RUTHVEN. 


151 


time  when  he,  too,  like  Gwyn,  had  one  who 
was  as  dear  to  him  as  this  fair  young  creature 
was  to  his  brother;  memories  of  a  time  when 
the  touch  of  a  gentle  hand  stealing  toward 
his  would  quicken  his  heart's  pulsation,  and 
send  through  him  a  thrill  of  rapture.  Those 
memories  had  never  been  lost,  they  had  lived 
through  all  the  weary  years,  they  formed  a 
torment  to  him  in  his  desolation  ;  but  never 
had  they  been  roused  to  such  life,  and  with 
such  vividness,  as  at  this  moment,  when  Bes 
sie  made  this  half-unconscious  movement  of 
confiding  tenderness.  The  happiness  of  Gwyn 
only  served  to  remind  him  more  poignantly 
than  usual  of  all  that  he  had  lost,  and  a 
drear  sense  of  solitude  came  across  his  soul — 


!  brother's  recollection,  but  were  recognized  as 
Gwyn  mentioned  them.  About  these  Gwyn 
talked  with  a  zest,  and  a  simple,  honest  de 
light,  which  was  very  touching.  His  whole 
tone  showed  that,  in  the  days  of  his  early 
life,  he  had  looked  up  to  this  brother  Kane 
with  all  the  enthusiastic  admiration  of  a  gen- 
erous  boy.  It  was  also  quite  evident  that 
this  enthusiastic  admiration  had  lasted  be 
yond  his  boyhood  and  into  his  maturer  years. 
He  seemed  to  have  considered  his  brother 
Kane  the  beau  ideal  of  perfect  manhood,  and 
one  who  was  the  best  model  for  his  own  imi 
tation.  At  the  same  time  he  regarded  his 


'  Oh,  for  the  touch  of  a  gentle  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still.1 

The  sight  of  his  brother's  happiness  also 
had  another  effect.  It  elicited  not  envy,  for 
envy  was  a  stranger  to  his  heart,  but  rather 
a  generous  sympathy,  and  a  more  tender  re 
gard  both  for  this  brother  and  this  new-found 
sister.  Inez  was  one  sister,  and  here  stood 
another  as  fair  as  she,  and,  to  all  outward 
seeming,  as  gentle,  as  pure,  and  as  good. 
The  sight  of  these  two  only  served  to  strength 
en  his  firm  resolve  already  made,  to  leave  his 
brother  here  in  possession  of  that  estate  and 
title  for  which  he,  in  his  present  mode  of  life, 
had  no  need,  and  of  which  his  nature  would 
not  permit  him  to  deprive  him. 

The  loving  and  tender  reception  of  Kane 
by  these  two  was  met  on  his  part  by  a  grate 
ful  reciprocity  of  feeling ;  the  hearts  of  all  of 
them  were  opened  to  one  another;  and  an  in 
terchange  of  confidences  took  place,  which  was 
unreserved  on  the  part  of  Gwyn,  and  only 
limited  on  the  part  of  Kane  by  the  nature  of 
those  griefs  which  he  suffered,  and  which 
could  not  be  lightly  spoken  of.  He  laid  great 
stress  on  his  wanderings,  and  particularly  on 
his  adventures  in  South  Africa  in  search  of 
diamonds.  His  allusions  to  this  were  made 
with  the  intention  of  letting  Gwyn  see  that 
he  had  ample  means  of  his  own,  and  of  com 
municating  to  him,  in  a  delicate  way,  the  fact 
that  he  had  no  intention  whatever  of  takin 
any  steps  to  deprive  him  of  the  estate. 

But  the  chief  topic  of  conversation  re 
ferred  to  times  far  beyond  this,  and  to  things 
which  they  had  in  common.  Gwyn  had  much 
to  say  about  his  early  boyhood  and  his  re 
membrances  of  Kane.  He  brought  forward  a 
thousand  things  which  had  faded  out  of  his 


own  efforts  to  imitate  him  as  useless,  and  the 
honest  humility  of  his  allusions  to  his  own 
inferiority  was  almost  pathetic,  especially 
when  his  noble  face  and  his  chivalric  senti 
ments  were  so  manifest,  and  seemed  to  speak 
so  plainly  of  a  character  and  a  nature  which 
could  not  suffer  from  a  comparison  with  even 
that  idealized  Kane  which  he  had  in  his 
mind. 

The  minuteness  and  the  accuracy  of  Gwyn's 
recollections  surprised  Kane,  who  had  forgot 
ten  many  of  the  occurrences  mentioned.  They 
referred  chiefly  to  Kane's  last  year  at  home, 
when  Gwyn  was  a  little  fellow  and  Kane  a 
young  man.  The  incidents  were  very  trifling 
in  themselves,  but  at  the  time  they  had  ap 
peared  wonderful  to  the  boy  ;  and  now,  even 
when  he  had  become  a  man,  they  seemed  the 
most  important  events  of  his  life.  It  was  not 
long  afterward  that  Kane's  misfortunes  had 
occurred,  and  Gwyn  showed,  without  going 
into  particulars,  but  merely  by  a  few  eloquent 
statements  of  facts,  that,  at  the  time  when 
Kane  was  so  desolate,  there  was  one  loving 
heart  that  was  sore  wrung  for  him,  and  one 
loyal  soul  that  would  have  faced  even  death 
itself  if  it  could  have  done  him  good. 

Bessie  bore  herself  admirably  during  the 
conversation.  She  did  not  thrust  herself  for 
ward  too  much  ;  nor  did  she,  on  the  other 
hand,  subside  into  silence.  A  few,  well-chosen 
remarks,  now  and  then  thrown  in,  served  to 
show  that  she  was  full  of  the  deepest  interest 
in  all  that  was  said,  and  occasional  timely 
questions  to  one  or  the  other  of  the  brothers 
served  to  draw  forth  a  fuller  explanation  of 
the  subject  to  which  the  question  referred. 
Moreover,  all  the  time  there  was  in  her  ex 
pressive  face  such  eager  curiosity,  such  pro 
found  interest,  such  total  surrender  of  self  to 
the  one  who  might  be  speaking,  that  her  very 


152 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


silence  was  more  eloquent  than  any  words 
could  have  been. 

Bessie  was  also  gentle  and  affectionate. 
Kane  was  her  brother  now.  With  a  frank 
ness  that  was  charming  she  at  once  began  to 
put  herself  on  the  footing  of  a  sister  toward 
him ;  and  proceeded,  not  abruptly,  but  deli 
cately  and  by  degrees,  to  insinuate  herself 
further  into  confidential  terms  of  intercourse. 
At  first  it  was  Brother  Kane,  occasionally 
dropped  as  if  by  accident ;  then  the  familiar 
name  was  repeated  more  frequently.  Then 
she  called  him  simply  Kane.  Once,  when  her 
sympathies  seemed  unusually  strong,  she  ex 
claimed,  "  0  dear  brother  Kane !  it's  heart- 
broke  you  must  have  been  about  that  same  1" 
Finally,  when  they  bade  one  another  good 
night,  she  held  forth  her  cheek  in  the  most 
childish  and  innocent  and  sisterly  manner  in 
the  world,  and,  as  he  kissed  her,  she  said  : 

"  Good-night,  dear  Kane  ;  good-night,  and 
pleasant  dreams." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

HUSBAND    AND    WIFE. 

KANE  RUTHYEN  had  come  here  to  Ruthven 
Towers  on  an  errand.  That  errand  was  two 
fold  :  It  referred,  first,  to  his  lost  wife  Clara 
and,  secondly,  to  his  injured  sister  Inez.  He 
had  come  here  with  these  things  foremost  in 
his  mind,  and  all  his  thoughts  turned  toward 
a  dark  mystery.  But  his  arrival  here  had 
produced  a  change.  The  unexpected  recep 
tion  by  Gwyn,  the  meeting  with  Bessie,  the 
discovery  of  this  loyal,  true,  and  noble-hearted 
brother,  with  his  fair,  and  gentle,  and  tender 
wife,  all  tended  to  expel  the  darker  feelings 
from  his  soul.  The  first  sound  of  Bessie's 
laugh  had  been  to  him  what  the  harp-notes 
of  David  had  once  been  to  Saul ;  and,  though 
the  dark  clouds  might  again  roll  over  him 
yet  he  none  the  less  enjoyed  this  brief  sun 
shine.  For  that  day,  at  any  rate,  he  did  no 
choose  to  introduce  the  subject  of  Inez,  anc 
he  gave  himself  up  to  the  spirit  of  the  occa 
sion.  Once  more  he  came  back  to  the  ol( 
world  which  he  had  left ;  and,  on  becoming  i 
Ruthven  again,  he  allowed  his  mind  to  dwel 
upon  the  distant  past.  That  night  he  took 
up  his  abode  in  the  home  of  his  fathers,  an " 
slept  at  Ruthven  Towers. 


The  honest  and  unaffected  joy  of  Gwyn 
r  his  brother's  return  could  not  be  re 
pressed,   but  was   manifest  after  they  had 
parted  for  the  night,  and  while  he  and  Bessie 
at  talking  over  the  wonderful  events  of  the 
day. 

"Isn't  it  the  most  wonderful   and    the 
iolliest  thing    you   ever    heard    of,   Bessie, 
dear  ?  "  he  said ;  "  but,  oh,  you  haven't  the 
faintest  idea  of  what  he  used  to  be !     He  was 
the  most  magnificent   swell  —  the  bravest, 
boldest,  handsomest,   most  glorious  man  I 
ever  saw.     He  neglects  himself,  and  is  reek- 
ess  about  his  life ;  but  you  can  easily  judge 
vet,  from  his  present  appearance,  what  he 
may  once  have  been.     As  it  was,  he  was  a 
;reat,  bright  vision  in  my  life,  that  I've  never 
?orgotten.     His  ruin  was  a  great,  dark  thun 
der-cloud,  and  I  swear  I've  never  got  over 
that !     I  almost  broke  my  heart  about  it,  and 
I  used  to  imagine  a  thousand  things  that  I 
would  do  for  him  when  I  got  older.     And 
then  I've  never  given  him  up,  you  know  that ; 
I  told  your  poor  father  that,     I  always  hoped 
he  would  turn  up,  and  here  he  is  at  last.    But 
he's  an  odd  sort  of  a  fellow.     He  always  was 
the  soul  of  honor  and  generosity ;  and  in  this 
he  is  the  same  still,  only  perhaps  even  more 
so.     I've  already  told  him  how  I  searched  for 
him,  and  how  bad  I  had  felt  all  along  at  keep 
ing  the  title  and  estates  while  they  were  his. 
Whereupon,  what  do   you    think    he  said? 
Why,  he  declared  that  he  wouldn't  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  them;  but,  of  course,  he'll 
have    to.      I'll    make    him.      He's    suffered 
enough,  poor  old  boy  !  from  his  family.     All 
I  want  is  to  see  him  have  his  own.     He'll 
have  to  take  Ruthven  Towers,  and  be  Sir 
Kane.    Plain  Gwyn  Ruthven's  enough  for  me, 
especially  so  long  as  I  have  my  little  Bessie 
with  me." 

During  these  last  words  a  cloud  had  come 
over  Bessie's  brow,  which,  however,  Gwyn 
did  not  perceive.  As  he  ended,  he  turned 
fondly  toward  her,  and  kissed  her  lovingly. 

Bessie  smiled. 

"So  he's  going  to  be  Sir  Kane  Ruthven, 
and  you're  only  Mr.  Ruthven,  after  this,"  said 
Bessie,  slowly ;  "  and  he's  going  to  take  up 
his  abode  here  on  his  own  estates,  and  Ruth 
ven  Towers  is  all  his  own  entirely,  and  we're 
intruders,  so  we  are.  Well— well,  but  it's  a 
queer  world  we  live  in,  so  it  is." 

As  Bessie  said  this,  the  forced  smile 
passed  off,  and  the  cloud  came  back  to  her 


HUSBAND   AND   WIFE. 


face.     But  Gwyn  was  taken  up  with  his  ow 
pleasant  thoughts,  and  did  not  notice  her. 

"Yes,1'  he  exclaimed,  "'the  king  sha! 
come  to  his  own  again.'  Hurrah !  Kan 
swears  he  won't  take  it,  but  I  swear  he  shal 
And  now  we'll  see  who'll  win." 

"  Oh,  sure,  he'll  take  it  fast  enough,"  sail 
Bessie,  gloomily.  "No  man  ever  lived  tha 
would  refuse  it — and  if  it's  his — it's  his,  so  i 
is." 

"  Yes ;  but  you  know  he  really  wouldn' 
take  it  if  I  didn't  make  him,"  said  Gwyn 
"  and  I'm  going  to  make  him." 

Bessie  was  silent  for  some  time.  Thii 
was  so  unusual  a  thing  with  her  that  Gwyn 
at  length  noticed  it,  and  looked  at  her  smil 
ingly  and  pleasantly.  Her  head  was  half 
turned,  so  that  he  could  not  see  her  face,  and 
therefore  did  not  observe  the  slight  frown  of 
her  usually  serene  brow,  or  the  compressec 
lips,  that  generally  were  fixed  in  so  sweet  a 
smile.  But  serenity  and  smiles  were  gone 
now. 

"Isn't  it  awfully  jolly?"  cried  Gwyn,  en- 
thusiastically. 

"Awfully,"  said  Bessie,  while  her  little 
hands  clutched  each  other  convulsively,  and 
a  deeper  frown  came  over  her  brow. 

"It's  almost  too  good,  to  get  old  Kane 
back,"  said   Gwyn,  in   the  same  voice, 
swear  I  can  hardly  believe  it  yet !  " 

Bessie  made  no  reply  for  some  time.  A 
severe  struggle  was  going  on  within  her.  At 
length  she  regained  her  self-control  altogether, 
and  turned  her  face  around.  Once  more  her 
brow  was  serene,  and  the  old  familiar  stamp 
of  her  sweet  smile  was  on  her  curved  lips. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Gwynnie,  darling,"  said  Bessie ; 
"  it's  the  awfullest  jolliest  thing  I  ever  heard 
of,  so  it  is ;  and  that  dear,  darling,  old  Kane, 
so  splendid  a  man !  really,  he's  just  like 
Olympian  Jove,  entirely,  so  he  is ;  and  so  he's 
Sir  Kane,  is  he  ?  and  you're  only  Mr.  Ruth- 
ven,  and  I'm  not  Lady  Ruthven  at  all,  but 
only  plain  Mrs.  Ruthven.  How  very,  very 
funny,  is  it  not,  Gwynnie,  darling?  "  » 

Gwyn  laughed  aloud ;  not  so  much  at  the 
funny  idea  that  Bessie  had  pointed  out  to 
.him,  but  rather  out  of  the  joy  of  his  heart 
over  his  brother's  return. 

"  Oh,  it  is  very,  very  funny,  it  is,  entirely," 
said  Bessie ;  "  and  so  we'll  have  to  quit  Ruth 
ven  Towers,  and  Sir  Kane  will  remain  in  pos 
session." 

"Oh,  yes,"  cried  Gwyn,  "he'll  have  to  do 


it ;  of  course,  the  dear  old  boy.  He'll  make 
no  end  of  a  row  about  it,  you  know ;  but  he'll 
have  to  do  it.  Ha,  ha!  isn't  it  jolly?  But 
we'll  be  close  by  one  another  always,  that's 
one  comfort." 

"How  is  that,  Gwynnie,  darling?"  asked 
Bessiet  in  her  softest  tone.  "How  can  we 
always  be  close  by  one  another  if  we  have  to 
leave  Ruthven  Towers  ?  Sorrow  a  one  of  me 
knows  at  all,  at  all." 

"Why,  of  course,  you  know,  you  little 
goose,  we'll  go  and  live  at  Mordaunt  Manor." 
"  0  Gwynnie  !  "  exclaimed  Bessie,  fixing 
her  eyes  mournfully  upon  her  husband,  and 
speaking  in  tones  of  the  utmost  reproach — 
"  0  Gwynnie  !  Mordaunt  Manor." 

"  By  Jove !  "  exclaimed  Gwyn,  "  my  own 
little  pet,  I  really  forgot  your — your  dislike, 
and  all  that." 

"  And  pup — pup — poor — did — did — did — 
dear  pup— pup — pup— pa  !  scarce  cold  in  his 
grave.  How  can  I  go  back  ?  "  sobbed  Bes 
sie  ;  "  and  you  know  how  sad  it  was,  and  how 
hard  it  is  to  avoid  giving  way.  0  Gwynnie  ! 
how  could  I  ever  expect  such  a  thing  from 
you ! " 

At  this  Gwyn  looked  unutterably  shocked 
and  distressed.  He  folded  her  in  his  arms 
— he  swore  and  vowed  that  he  did  not  mean 
what  she  supposed  ;  that  there  was  no  neces 
sity  to  leave  Ruthven  Towers  yet,  for  a  long 
time,  and,  even  when  they  did,  they  need  not 
o  to  Mordaunt  Manor.  They  could  live  in 
London,  Paris,  anywhere,  in  a  hundred  other 
places.  Bessie  gradually  allowed  herself  to 
Decome  mollified,  and  at  length  seemed  quite 
lerself  again. 

"  But  won't  it  be  awfully  funny,  Gwynnie 
dear  ?  "  she  said.  "  I'll  have  to  support  you, 
won't  I?  Sure  it's  turn  and  turn  about  it'll 
>e,  so  it  will." 

Gwyn  laughed  at  this  in  his  usual  up 
roarious  fashion. 

"Sure,"  said  Bessie,  thoughtfully,  "all 
his  reminds  me  of  a  thing  that  I've  some- 
imes  thought  of.  It  used  to  seem  impossi- 
>le,  but  now  sure  there's  no  knowing,  and  I 
don't  know  but  that  it'll  be  the  next  thing 
hat'll  happen,  so  it  will ;  and,  if  so,  then 
ood-by,  say  I,  not  only  to  Ruthven  Towers, 
ut  also  to  Mordaunt  Manor." 

At  this  Gwyn  started  and  stared  at  Bessie 
n  amazement. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  he  asked. 
"  Sure  I  mean  what  I  say." 


154 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION 


"  How  can  we  bid  good-by  to  Mordaunt 
Manor  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  same  way  that  we're  going  to 
bid  good-by  to  Ruthven  Towers." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  Why,  my  elder  brother 
has  come  home.  You  haven't  any  elder  broth 
er,  you  know,  you  little  goose."  ^ 

"  No,  but  what  prevents  me  from  having 
an  elder  sister  ?  "  said  Bessie,  looking  earnest 
ly  at  her  husband. 

11  An  elder  sister  ! "  cried  Gwyn,  in  new 
amazement. 

"  Just  that ;  it's  that  entirely  what  I  mean, 
so  it  is,"  said  Bessie,  "  and  sorrow  the  thing 
else  it  is,  at  all  at  all ;  and  there  you  have  it. 
Oh,  really,  Gwynnie  darling,  you  needn't  be 
gin  to  smile.  You've  done  enough  laughing 
for  to-day  ;  and  this'll  help  you  to  feel  a  little 
more  serious,  so  it  will.  I  suppose  poor,  dear 
papa  could  never  have  mentioned  it  to  you," 
continued  Bessie,  with  a  sigh,  "  but,  no  won 
der,  when  he  was  so  very,  very  ill." 

"  Ton  my  life ! "  exclaimed  Gwyn,  "  I 
haven't  the  faintest  idea  what  you're  driving 
at.  You  have  to  explain  yourself  more,  Bes 
sie  dearest,  only  you  mustn't  make  your  poor 
little  head  ache  about  nothing." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  my  poor  little  head,"  said 
Bessie ;  "  there's  enough  in  this  to  make  more 
heads  ache  than  mine.  Only  I  do  wish  poor, 
dear  papa  had  explained  it  all  to  you.  I  hate 
so  to  make  explanations.  But  there's  no 
help  for  it.  Well,  you  know,  Gwynnie  dear 
est,  poor,  dear  papa  had  two  daughters — one 
Clara  and  the  other  Inez." 

"  But  Clara's  dead,"  cried  Gwyn. 
Bessie  shook  her  head. 
"  Nobody  ever  knew  about  her  death,  at 
any  rate ;  she's  dead  in  just  the  same  way 
that  your  brother  Kane  was  dead." 

"What!"  cried  Gwyn  —  "what  makes 
everybody  say  so,  then?  And  your  father, 
he  gave  her  up  as  dead.  I've  heard  him 
speak  about  the  dear  child  that  he  had  lost." 
"Sure  enough,"  said  Bessie,  "he  did 
that  same.  This  sister  Clara  disappeared 
when  I  was  a  bit  of  a  child,  and,  of  course, 
you  know,  'Gwynnie,  it  certainly  is  pos 
sible,  and  perhaps  even  likely,  that  she  is 
dead ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  there  is  no  cer 
tainty  of  that,  at  all  at  all,  not  the  least  in 
life.  You  see,  she  was  sent  off  to  a  school  in 
France,  and  while  there  she  made  a  runaway 
match  with  some  adventurer ;  and  that's  how 
it  was.  Well,  there  was  a  will,  and  there  was 


a  guardian,  and  the  will  arranged  that,  if  ever 
either  of  the  daughters  married  without  the 
consent  of  the  guardian,  she  could  be  dis 
owned,  or  something.  Well,  poor  papa  was 
supposed  to  be  dead,  and  poor,  dear  guar- 
dy  didn't  like  the  match,  and  so,  I  sup 
pose,  he  treated  them  rather  cruelly,  for  she 
disappeared,  and  was  given  out  as  dead,  and 
that's  all  I  know  about  it,  you  know.  So, 
you  know,  I've  often  thought  that  poor,  dear, 
darling  Clara  might  yet  be  alive— and  oh,  how 
awfully  glad  I  should  be  to  see  her  !— and  she 
may  come  and  claim  Mordaunt  Hall,  you 
know ;  and  then,  you  see,  Gwynnie  darling, 
we'll  be  left  to  our  own  resources  entirely." 

"  Oh,  really  now,  Bessie,  see  here,  now,'* 
said  Gwyn,  "  this  is  all  very  different,  you 
know— a  different  thing  entirely.  Oh,  she's 
not  alive — no — no — depend  upon  it,  she's  not 
alive— no,  nothing  of  the  kind — why,  it's  all 
nonsense,  you  know." 

"  But  wouldn't  it  be  awfully  funny  if  she 
were  to  turn  up,  after  all,  alive  and  well,  and 
come  to  take  possession  of  Mordaunt  Man 
or?" 

"  Preposterous  1 "  exclaimed  Gwyn.  "Why, 
Bessie  love,  you  haven't  got  a  ghost  of  a 
foundation  for  all  this." 

"No,  darling,  nor  had  you  any  foundation 
more  than  this  for  your  belief  in  the  life  of 
dear  Kane,  yet  you  always  believed  he  would 
come — didn't  you,  darling  ?  " 
Gwyn  was  silent. 

"  And  so,  do  you  know,  Gwynnie,  I  really 
have  always  had  a  firm  belief  that  some  day 
my  poor,  dear,  darling  sister  would  turn  up — 
and  wouldn't  that  be  funny  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but,  you  know,  Bessie,  you  see  tV-> 
is  a  different  sort  of  thing  altogether.  OL, 
quite!" 

"  But  isn't  it  awfully  funny,  now  ?  " 
"  Oh,  yes." 

"And  now,  Gwynnie,  I've  got  another 
thing  to  tell  you,  and  it's  very,  very  funny, 
too_Sure  and  it's  getting  to  be  the  funniest 
thing  I  ever  knew— all  this  is— it  is  entirely.'* 
"  What  do  you  mean  now  ?  "  asked  Gwyn, 
curiously,  wondering  what  new  revelation 
Bessie  might  make. 

"  Sure  and  it's  this,"  said  Bessie.     "  Your 
brother  Kane  was  married,  you  know." 
"  Oh,  yes ;  I  know  that,  of  course." 
"Did  you  ever   hear  the  name  of  the 
lady?" 
«  Never." 


HUSBAND   AND   WIFE. 


155 


"  Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you  who  she  wa 
and  you  must  be  prepared  for  a  surprise,  s 
you  must.     The  lady  that  your  brother  Kan 
Ruthven  married  was  my  own  elder  sister 
Clara  Mordaunt ! " 

At  this  Gwyn  actually  bounded  from  hi 
chair. 

"  I  don't  believe  it !  "  he  cried. 
"  It's  the  truth  I'm  telling,"  said  Bessie 
placidly.  "  My  dear  guardy  was  hers  also 
it  was  Mr.  Wyverne  that  you've  heard  m 
talk  about,  and  he  told  me  all  about  it.  And 
oh,  but  the  dear  man  had  the  sore  heart  af 
terward ;  really  it  was  very,  very  sad,  Gwynni 
dear,  to  see  how  he  tried  to  find  poor,  dea 
Clara,  so  as  to  make  amends.  He  made  tha 
last  journey  to  France  for  the  purpose  of 
making  a  final  search." 

Some  more  conversation  followed  about 
this.  Gwyn  had  many  inquiries  to  make 
about  Mr.  Wyverne  and  Clara  before  he  could 
feel  satisfied.  But  Bessie's  answers  were  so 
clear  that  there  was  no  room  for  doubt  left 
in  his  mind. 

"  And  so,  Gwynnie  dearest,"  said  Bessie, 
laying  her  hand  lovingly  upon  that  of  her 
husband,  and  bending  her  golden  head  near 
to  his  till  her  forehead  rested  on  his  shoulder, 
"  you  see,  Clara  was  really  dear  Kane's  wife, 
and  I  dare  say  she  is  still  alive,  and  wouldn't 
it  be  funny  if  it  should  turn  out  that  dear 
Kane  had  come  here  on  her  business  as  well 
as  his  own  ?  " 

Gwyn  had  begun  to  caress  the  lovely  head 
that  was  leaning  on  his  shoulder,  but  at  this 
he  stopped,  and  a  sudden  look  of  pain  flashed 
across  his  face.  But  it  passed  away  instant 
ly. 

"Pooh!"  said  he.  "Kane  hasn't  any 
secrets  from  me.  If  his  wife  was  living, 
he'd  have  told  me." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  but  you  see,  dear,  he's 
hardly  had  time  yet.  I  dare  say  he'll  tell  you 
to-morrow,  or  next  week.  He'll  break  it  very, 
very  gradually,  of  course.  Besides,  he  wouldn't 
like  to  mention  it  before  me." 

At  this,  the  gloom  came  over  Gwyn's  face 
once  more. 

"  By  Jove !  Bessie,"  said  he,  "  you  don't 
know  what  you're  saying." 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  this  should 
not  be  so,"  said  Bessie. 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  it  makes  him  seem  like- 
like— like  an  underhanded  sort  of  a  fellow." 
"Well,  I'm  sure  I  didn't  mean  to  hint  at 


any  thing  of  that  sort  about  dear  Kane.     It's 
your  own  fancy,  Gwynnie  dear." 
Gwyn  frowned,  and  sat  in  thought. 
"Well,  at  any  rate,"  said  Bessie,  "you 
can't  deny  that  we're  both  likely  to  be  pau 
pers." 

Gwyn  drew  a  long  breath,  and  was  silent. 
"  By  paupers  I  mean,  of  course,  depend 
ants  on  others,  and  that  I  hate,  even  when 
it's  my  own  sister.  If  I  were  not  married,  it 
would  be  different,  but  a  married  woman 
ought  to  depend  on  her  husband." 

"Oh,  nonsense,  you  little  goose!"  said 
Gwyn,  hurriedly;  "this  is  all  nonsense  ;  but, 
even  if  it  were  so,  I  can  take  care  of  you, 
you  poor,  little,  precious  darling." 
"  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  how." 
"  Why,  I'll— I'll— I'll  go  into  the  army,  of 
course." 

"  I  never  could  bear  that,  dear,"  said  Bes 
sie,  with  a  shudder.  "  It's  too— too  danger 
ous.  Besides,  darling,  do  you  think  the  pay 
of  an  officer  is  enough  to  support  a  wife  ? 
They  say  not," 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Gwyn,  in  an  attempt  at 
bis  old  cheerfulness,  "I'm  young.  There's 
lots  of  young  fellows  that  fight  their  way 
through  life." 

"  Sure,  and  there  are,"  said  Bessie,  pleas 
antly  ;  "but  you  know,  Gwynnie  dear,  you 
haven't  been  brought  up  to  fight  your  own 
way — no  more  have  I." 

"  Ton  my  soul,  Bessie,"  said  Gwyn,  with 
a  short  laugh,  "  you're  developing  an  amount 
of  prudence  that  I  never  gave  you  credit 
for." 

"  Sure,  and  it's  the  bitter,  black  prospect 
>efore  us  that's  enough  to  make  a  fool  wise. 
'11  have  to  give  up  being  a  butterfly,  Gwyn 
nie  darling,  so  I  will,  and  turn  into  a  busy 
bee.     It's  not  prudence,  so  it  isn't.     It's  fear, 
or  I'm  frightened  out  of  my  wits.     And  oh  ! 
on't— don't  be  so  hasty,  Gwynnie,  don't  give 
p  all,  don't,  don't,  darling,   darling   Gwyn- 
ie ! " 


With  these  words  Bessie  burst  into  tears 
ung  her  arms  about  her  husband,  and  sobbed 
pon  his  breast. 

"Oh,  come,  now,"  said  Gwyn,  but  he 
ould  say  no  more.  He  was  troubled.  Bes- 
e  held  him  thus,  and  entreated  him  as  be- 
ore. 

'  I  must,"  said  Gwyn,  "  my  own  darling. 
It's  dishonor  not  to — " 

"  Oh,  sure,  and  what's  dishonor  compared 


156 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


to  black,  biting  poverty  ?     Sorrow  the  bit  do 
I  care  for  dishonor,  and  there  you  have  it." 

At  this,  Gwyn  shrank  back  a  little.  The 
hand  which  was  fondling  her  and  soothing 
her  again,  as  before,  ceased  as  if  paralyzed. 
He  looked  at  the  golden  head  and  the  slen 
der  form. 

"  Well,  Bessie,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  a 
lady  once  told  me,  in  confidence,  that  women 
never  have  any  sense  of  true  honor.  I  was 
horrified,  at  the  time,  at  such  a  sentiment, 
from  a  lady  too ;  but,  after  what  you've  just 
said,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  don't  begin  to  think 
there  must  be  some  truth  in  it." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Bessie.  "What's 
sentiment  ?  What's  honor  ?  It's  only  you  I 
care  for  in  all  the  world,  only  you— only  you 
— and  this  will  bring  darkness  and  sorrow 
down  on  you,  Gwynnie.  0  Gwynnie !  0 
Gwynnie !  darling,  darling  Gwynnie !  what 
will  become  of  you  ?  " 

At  such  fond  words  as  these,  Gwyn's  heart 
overflowed  with  tenderness.  The  poor,  little, 
weak,  loving  creature,  thus  clinging  to  him, 
with  her  timid,  tender,  loving  heart,  how 
could  she  be  responsible  for  any  sentiments 
that  did  not  happen  to  come  up  to  a  man's 
code  of  honor  ?  It  was  enough  for  him  that 
she  loved  him  so.  He  kissed  her  therefore 
tenderly,  and  soothed  her  fears. 

"This  man,"  said  Bessie  —  "this  man 
comes  like  a  serpent,  to  ruin  us." 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  nonsense  !  Bessie,  dar 
ling,  you  mustn't  talk  so." 

Bessie  clung  more  closely  to  him. 
"  I  wish  he  had  never,  never  come  !  "  she 
said,  passionately. 
"  0  Bessie  ! " 

"  I  wish  he  had  died  when  they  thought 
he  had." 

"  Darling,  don't  talk  so,  you  don't  know 
how  you  wring  my  heart." 

"  I  don't  care.  I  wish  he  was  dead ! " 
cried  Bessie,  fiercely  and  bitterly. 

"Bessie,"  said  Gwyn,  "you  must  stop." 
He  spoke  sternly.  Bessie  gave  a  sob,  and 
clung  more  closely  to  him.  Her  arms  were 
around  him.  He  loved  her  better  than  life. 
He  thought  her  not  responsible  for  these 
passionate  words,  and,  in  the  circling  clasp 
of  those  loving  arms,  how  could  he  feel  an 
ger? 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

REVIVING   OLD   ASSOCIATIONS. 

HOWEVER  excited  Bessie's  feelings  may 
have  been,  they  left  no  trace  behind,  for  on 
the  following  day  she  greeted  "dear  brother 
Kane  "with  the  same  cordiality,  the  same 
innocent  affection,  and  the  same  sisterly  fa 
miliarity  which  had  distinguished  their  adieux 
of  the  evening  before.  As  for  Gwyn,  there 
was  no  change  in  him,  except  that  he  was,  if 
possible,  even  more  cordial  than  ever.  Kane 
on  his  part  was  in  no  haste  to  put  an  end  to 
the  happiness  which  he  felt  at  thus  finding 
himself  again  the  centre  of  affectionate  atten 
tions  ;  he  felt  as  though  his  business  had  some 
thing  in  it  which  would  in  some  way  interfere 
with  the  sunshine  of  the  present,  and  there 
fore  was  in  no  immediate  haste  to  introduce 
it. 

That  day  they  passed  in  visiting  the 
places  within  and  without  in  which  Kane  took 
an  interest. 

When  he  was  a  boy,  the  Ruthvens  had 
lived  in  London  principally,  and  had  come 
to  this  place  but  seldom.  On  one  of  these 
occasions,  Kane  had  remained  several  weeks  ; 
and  all  his  memories  of  Ruthven  Towers  were 
crowded  into  this  space  of  time.  He  was  then 
a  boy  of  fourteen,  active,  eager,  daring,  and 
during  this  visit  had  made  himself  thoroughly 
familiar  with  all  the  past  history  of  Ruthven 
Towers,  with  every  legend  connected  with 
this  place  or  with  the  surrounding  country. 
He  had  never  been  here  since,  but  so  vivid 
was  the  impression  which  this  visit  had  made 
upon  his  mind,  and  so  retentive  was  his  mem 
ory,  that  every  thing  almost  that  he  saw 
served  to  recall  some  incident  in  that  bright 
time  of  boyish  vigor  and  enjoyment. 

To  all  the  reminiscences  of  that  bright 
past,  Gwyn  listened  with  his  usual  relish  and 
absorbed  interest,  questioning  his  brother 
incessantly,  and  hanging  upon  bis  words  with 
that  fond  admiration  which  ever  since  Kane's 
arrival  had  marked  his  attitude  toward  him. 
Kane  found  it  pleasant  to  talk  of  this  past — 
which  lay  beyond  the  time  of  his  calamity; 
and  all  the  more  so,  since  he  had  such  listen- 
ers.  For  he  had  not  only  Gwyn,  but  Bessie 
also ;  and  she,  too,  sliowed  something  of  the 
same  feelings  which  Gwyn  evinced— the  same 
attitude  of  eager  attention,  the  same  look  of 
intense  interest,  of  utter  and  complete  self- 


REVIVING  OLD  ASSOCIATIONS. 


157 


absorption  in  the  narrative  of  the  speaker. 
She  had  shown  all  this  on  the  previous  day; 
and  now  she  showed  it  still  more  strongly. 

In  the  morning  they  strolled  about  the 
grounds,  and,  after  this,  went  out  for  a  drive. 
Kane  sat  with  Bessie  in  the  back-seat,  Gwyn 
in  the  front-seat.  As  they  had  found  in  the 
house  and  about  the  park  many  objects 
which  called  up  old  associations  in  Kane's 
mind,  so  did  they  also  find,  beyond  the  grounds, 
places  that  lived  in  his  recollection,  and  which 
were  associated  with  the  events  of  that  halcyon 
time  when  he  made  his  boyish  visit  to  Ruth- 
ven  Towers. 

Beyond  the  limits  of  the  park  the  country 
became  hilly,  and  among  these  eminences 
was  one  which  was  very  conspicuous  from 
the  road  as  they  drove  along.  It  was  a  pre 
cipice  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high, 
whose  dark,  rocky  sides  presented  a  gloomy 
contrast  to  the  rich  vegetation  all  around, 
and  the  waving  trees  and  grassy  slopes  be 
yond  this.  The  moment  Kane  caught  sight 
of  this  he  seemed  unusually  excited. 

"  There,"  said  he,  "  is  a  place  where  I  did 
one  of  the  pluckiest  things  I  ever  did  in  mv 
life." 

"Oh,  do,  dear  brother  Kane,  tell  us  all 
about  it,  if  you  please,  brother  Kane.  I  do 
so  love  to  hear  about  these  adventures  of 
yours,  so  I  do.  Do,  please— won't  you,  broth 
er  Kane  ?  " 

Kane  looked  with  a  smile  at  the  beautiful 
face,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  with  an  ex- 
pression  of  the  most  anxious  entreaty,  and 
whose  tone  was  one  of  tha  most  coaxing  and 
irresistible. 

"  Well,  really,  Bessie,"  said  he,  "  it  seems 
absurd  for  me  to  be  talking  so  much  about 
myself." 

"  Oh,  but  you  know  we  do  so  love  to  hear 

all  about  what  you  used  to  be,  and  to  do ! 

don't  we,  Gwynnie  darling? — and  we  haven't 
seen  you  all  these  years— now,  have  we,  Gwyn 
nie  darling  ?  " 

Gwyn  lent  his  solicitations  to  those  of 
Bessie,  and  Kane  went  on  to  tell  about  a 
boyish  exploit,  which  was  really  very  cred 
itable. 

"You  still  call  that  place  the  'Witch's 
Rock  ? '  »  said  Kane,  inquiringly. 
"  Yes,"  said  Gwyn. 

"  Well,"  said  Kane,  "when  I  was  here,  I 
no  sooner  heard  that  name  than  I  was  wild  to 
visit  it,  and  to  hear  the  story,  if  there  was 


any  story,  that  was  connected  with  so  strange 
a  name.     It  was  some  story  about  a  witch 
that  lived  in  a  cave  on  the  side  of  that  cliff 
ever  so  long  ago,  and  kept  the  whole  country 
at  defiance,  though  they  all  turned  out  to 
hunt  her.     No  one  could  get  at  her,  though, 
and  she  remained  there.     How  she  lived,  no 
one  knew;    but  the  legend  had  it  that  she 
never  died,  but  was  living  there  yet.     Now, 
you  see,  that  was  just  the  thing  to  set  me 
wild  with  curiosity.     In  the  first  place,  the 
existence  of  a  cave  in  the  face  of  the  cliff 
was  a  temptation  in  itself;  and  then,  again, 
the  idea  that  the  witch  might  be  living  there 
yet  was  a  still  stronger  one.    I  didn't  believe 
in  the  witch,  but  I  did  believe  in  the  cave, 
and,  as  no  one  had  ever  got  into  it,  I  thought 
I'd  try^for  myself.     Well,  I  got  some  ropes, 
and,  without  saying  a  word  to  any  one,  went 
to  the  place,  and  let  myself  down  from  the 
top.     It  was  about  the  most  risky  thing  I 
ever  tried.     The  cave  was  sunk  in,  and°it 
wasn't  possible  to  get  a  foothold  in  it  at  all, 
without    swinging    backward   and    forward. 
However,  I   succeeded  in   the   attempt,  and 
actually  penetrated  into  it.     It  was  not  much 
of  a  place.     It  was  about  ten  feet  wide  in 
side,  and  twenty  deep,  and  I  dare  say  had 
often  sheltered  fugitives  in  the  stormy  times 
of  the  past.     I  cut  my  name  there,  and,  I  re 
member  now,  I  forgot  my  knife,  which  is  there 
yet,  unless  some  one  has  visited  the  place  and 
picked  it  up." 

"  By  Jove  ! "  said  Gwyn,  "  I  don't  believe 
I  should  have  the  nerve  for  that  sort  of  thing, 
old  boy.  I  shouldn't  mind  so  much  lowering 
myself  down,  but  it's  the  swinging  part  of 
the  business  that  would  upset  me." 

"  Yes,  that  was  the  hardest  part  of  it," 
said  Kane. 

"^But,  oh,  how  perfectly  awful!"  cried 
Bessie.  "  Why,  it  makes  me  positively  dizzy 
even  to  think  of  it,  so  it  does.  And  how  you 
ever  dared  to  do  such  a  thing  I  can't  imagine 
at  all,  at  all. — Now,  can  you,  Gwynnie  dear  ?  " 
"I  wonder  whether  I  could  do  such  a 
thing  as  that  now?"  said  Kane,  gazing 
thoughtfully  at  the  precipice.  The  carriage 
had  stopped.  They  all  looked  there. 

"  Why,  what  a  perfectly  horrible  idea  !  " 
cried  Bessie.  "Why,  I'm  sure  you'd  be 
dashed  to  pieces,  so  you  would." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Kane,  with  a  smile,  "  there's 
no  danger  of  that.  The  only  question  is, 
whether  I  could  do  the  swinging  part  of  it." 


158 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


"  Oh,  how  awfully  funny  ! "  said  Bessie. 
"  Sure  but  I  almost  wish  you  would,  Kane 
dear." 

"  By  Jove  ! "  said  Kane,  "  I  feel  very  much 
like  it.  I'd  like  to  try  whether  a  man's 
nerves  are  as  steady  as  those  of  a  boy." 

"  And  then  there's  your  knife,"  said  Bes 
sie.  "  Oh,  but  wouldn't  it  be  the  fine  thing 
entirely  if  you  should  get  in  there  again,  and 
find  that  nobody  had  ever  been  there  since 
yourself,  at  all  at  all,  and  wouldn't  you  be 
the  proud  man  ! " 

"The  knife?"  said  Kane.  "By  Jove! 
wouldn't  I  like  to  get  that  knife  again  !  The 
knife?  why  it  would  be  like  getting  back 
part  of  my  boyhood.  I  should  take  it  as  an 
omen,  if  I  found  it — an  omen  for  good  in  the 
future — that  things  are  going  to  turn  out  for 
me  all  right  in  the  end." 

"Sure  but  you  never  could  get  down 
there,"  said  Bessie;  "never  at  all  at  all. 
Oh,  no,  you  wouldn't  have  the  nerve  now. 
It's  too  terrible.  Why,  really  it  makes  me 
quite  dizzy  to  think  of  it. — Doesn't  it  make 
you  dizzy,  Gwynnie  dear  ?  " 

"  Dizzy  ?  pooh  1 "  said  Kane,  whose  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  cliff,  as  if  by  some  strong 
fascination.  "  Dizzy  ?  why,  no  man  that  has 
a  man's  head  on  his  shoulders  need  think 
any  thing  of  that.  I  could  easily  go  down 
and  back  again,  but  I  might  not  be  so  agile 
as  I  then  was,  and  might  not  be  able  to  get  a 
foothold." 

"  But,  oh,  what  a  triumph  it  would  be  ! 
and,  oh,  but  it's  the  proud  man  you'd  be  if 
you  were  to  find  the  knife  I " 

"  Look  here,  Bessie,"  said  Gwyn,  sudden 
ly,  "  'pon  my  word,  this  is  hardly  the  thing, 
you  know  ;  you  seem  to  be  actually  tempting 
Kane  to  a  dangerous  adventure,  when  you 
ought  to  be  trying  to  prevent  him." 

"  Me  tempt  him  ?  "  said  Bessie,  reproach 
fully.  "  Me  ?  sure  it's  only  encouraging  him 
that  I  was,  and  I'm  really  frightened  out  of 
my  wits  at  the  very  idea,  and  I'm  sure  I  don'' 
believe  that  he'd  dare  to  do  it,  and  that's  th< 
only  comfort  I  have,  so  it  is." 

"  Dare  ?  That's  the  wrong  word  to  use 
Bessie.  You'll  only  make  Kane  the  mon 
determined." 

Kane  laughed  merrily.    In  his  laugh  ther< 
was  a  ring  and  a  gusto  that  had  not  been 
known  in  any  laugh  of  his  for  years.    He  wa 
for  the  moment  like  a  boy  again.     The  pros 
pect  of  renewing  his  old  enterprise  and  re 


eating  his  boyish  feat,  of  itself  seemed  to 
ave  rejuvenated  him. 

"  Dare  ?  ha,  ha  I "  he  said.  "  When  a  lady 
.ares  a  man  to  do  any  thing,  there's  nothing 
eft  but  to  do  it.  But,  at  any  rate,  I  feel  con- 
oundedly  like  going;  and,  by  Jove!  I  will 

"0." 

Bessie  smiled  radiantly  at  him,  and  threw, 
mmediately  afterward,  a  deprecatory  glance 
at  Gwyn. 

"  Nonsense,  Kane !  don't  think  of  such  a 
,hing ;  it's  dangerous." 

"  Dangerous  ?  pooh  1 "  said  Kane.  "  I  tell 
you  the  sight  of  this  rock  has  made  me  a  boy 
again.  I  want  to  find  my  knife.  Gwyn,  my 
boy,  you  don't  know  how  I  cling  to  that  glo- 
ious  boyhood,  and  you'll  never  know  till 
you've  had  a  manhood  like  mine,  and  from 
that  may  Heaven  preserve  you  !" 

These  last  few  words  were  spoken  with 
sad  and  solemn  intonations.  These  words 
Gwyn  had  occasion  afterward  to  recall — 
afterward,  when  they  seemed  to  him  to  have 
a  prophetic  meaning. 

For  the  present,  at  any  rate,  Kane  had 
made  up  his  mind,  and  for  the  rest  of  the 
day  was  full  of  this  new  idea.  His  old  grim- 
ness  departed  utterly,  and  a  boyish  enthu 
siasm  about  his  coming  attempt  took  the 
place  of  it.  Gwyn  made  a  few  feeble  attempts 
to  dissuade  him  from  it.  He  felt  some  strange, 
indefinable  presentiments  of  evil,  but  did  not 
know  how  to  express  these  in  words,  and  so 
his  attempts  to  dissuade  Kane  were  only 
laughed  at.  But  Bessie  cheered  him  on. 
Bessie  talked  about  it  incessantly.  Bessie 
laughed  about  it,  and  made  merry  about  it ; 
and  even  if  Kane  had  been  inclined  to  give 
it  up,  he  could  scarcely  have  done  so  under 
such  circumstances.  But  Kane  was  not  in 
clined  to  give  it  up.  The  idea  had  taken 
complete  possession  of  him,  and  nothing  now 
could  have  prevented  his  putting  it  into  ex 
ecution.  He  spent  some  time  that  day  in 
making  preparations  for  his  adventure.  These 
preparations  were  not  at  all  elaborate.  They 
consisted  simply  in  procuring  a  rope  of  suffi 
cient  length  and  strength,  and  tying  a  series 
of  alternate  knots  and  loops.  This  was  the 
mode  which  he  had  adopted  when  a  boy,  and 
its  complete  success  at  that  time  recom 
mended  it  as  the  best  thing  which  he  could 
•do  now ;  besides,  in  this  recent  revival  of 
boyish  feeling,  any  thing  that  could  connect 
him  more  closely  with  those  early  days  was 


REVIVING   OLD  ASSOCIATIONS. 


159 


welcome,  and  nothing  seemed  pleasanter  t 
him  than  to  repeat,  even  to  the  minutest  de 
tails,  the  plan  which  had  formerly  been  s 
successful. 

Another  evening  came— the  second  even 
ing  at  Ruthven  Towers  for  Kane.     By  thi 
time  he  and  Bessie  were  on  terms  that  wer 
most  cordial,  most  fraternal,  and  most  confi 
dential.   He  had  thus  far  refrained  from  men 
tioning  the  real  object  of  his  journey  here 
from  the  fear  that  the  mention  of  this  migh 
mar  the  joy  of  this  intercourse.     Yet  through 
this  day  he  had  thought  much  of  this,  and  the 
more  he  thought  of  it  the  more  absurd  did 
such  hesitation  seem.     Here  was  this  noble- 
hearted  brother  and  this  gentle  and  Iovin6 
wife— his  brother  and  sister— why  should  he 
hesitate  any   longer  to   tell  them  what  he 
wished  to  tell  ?     JSTot  the  story  of  Clara— 
that  was  too  sad,  too  tragic,  too  terrible,  for 
such  innocent  ears  as  Bessie's  to  hear— but 
rather  the  story  of  Inez.    Was  not  Bessie  the 
friend  of  Inez?     Did  not  Inez  still  love  her 
and   trust  in   her?      Why  delay   to    make 
known  to  the  only  friend  that  Inez  had  the 
terrible  loneliness  of  her  position  ?      What 
could  be  better  for  the  poor,  lonely  girl  than 
to  be  able  to  join  her  friend  once  more? 
Once  together,   all   could   be   explained;  or 
even  if  any  mystery  remained  they  could 
wait,  secure  in  one  another's  love,  until  light 
should  be  thrown  upon  it. 

Kane's  confidence  in  Bessie  was  complete. 
It  had  grown  rapidly,  but  he  had  come  to  her 
as  a  brother,  and  she  had  met  him  as  a  sis- 
ter.  Under  these  circumstances  there  had 
been  none  of  that  reserve  vrhich  otherwise 
might  have  existed. 

Accordingly,  that  evening  he  told  them 
about  Inez.  He  told  the  story  to  both  of 
them,  for  they  were  both  one  now,  and  he 
never  dreamed  of  telling  Bessie  any  thing 
which  Gwyn  might  not  also  hear.  It  was 
his  confidence  in  Bessie's  gentle  and  noble 
character,  her  loyalty,  and  her  innate  worth, 
that  led  him  to  this.  He  did  not  tell,  how- 
ever,  the  whole  story  as  Inez  had  told  it  to 
him.  The  perplexing  mystery  of  her  claim  to 
be  the  daughter  of  Bernal  Mordaunt,  when 
Bessie  had  been  acknowledged  as  that  very 
daughter,  prevented  him  from  touching  upon 
the  subject,  and  from  even  mentioning  the 
name.  He  merely  mentioned  that  Inez  had 
received  a  letter  from  one  who  professed  to 
have  been  appointed  by  her  father  as  her 


guardian ;  that  Inez  had  believed  the  letter, 
and,  with  the  utmost  recklessness,  had  com' 
plied  with  his  request  to  come  to  him  at 
Paris.  When  there  she  had  found  out  that 
this  man  was  not  what  he  professed  to  be, 
and  that,  for  some  unknown  reason,  he  wished 
to  keep  her  in  his  power.  She  was  subjected 
to  restraint  for  a  time,  but  managed  finally  to 
escape.  She  had  written  twice  to  Bessie,  but 
had  received  no  answer. 

In  this  guarded  way  Kane  told  the  story 
of  Inez,  and  in  this  way  he  avoided  altogeth 
er  that  painful  and  distressing  confusion  of 
names,   claims,   and  rights,   which   the  full 
statement  of  the  truth  would  have  brought 
forward.     He  did  not  mention  even  the  name 
of  Kevin  Magrath  for  fear  of  distressing  Bes 
sie,  but  contented  himself  with  the  name  of 
Gounod.     It  was  enough  for  him  just  then 
to  reveal  the  condition  of  Inez,  and  he  was 
willing  to  leave  all  the  rest  to  the  future.   He 
ihought  that  the  best  thing  for  him  to  do  would 
be  to  bring  Inez  and  Bessie  together  on  the 
old  footing;  and  then  Inez  might  tell,  of  her 
own  accord,  as  much  or  as  little  as  she  chose 
about  her  story.     He  could  not  help  feeling 
hat  much  had  yet  to  be  discovered  before 
he  conflicting  claims  of  these  two,  who  were 
o  innocent  and  so  dear,  could  in  any  way  be 
larmonized. 

If  there  had  remained  in  the  mind  of 
Kane  any  vestige  of  a  doubt  in  Bessie,  her 
eception  of  his  story  would  have  removed  it. 
Astonishment,  grief,  sympathy,  joy,  all 
seemed  to  struggle  together  in  the  expression 
of  Bessie's  face  and  in  the  tones  of  her  voice. 
The  start  of  horror  at  the  wickedness  of 
those  who  made  this  plot ;  the  cry  of  fear  at 
the  danger  of  Inez ;  the  exclamation  of  joy 
at  her  escape  and  safety;  of  all  that  in  look, 
or  word,  or  tone,  or  gesture,  could  indicate 
the  deepest  and  sincerest  sympathy,  not  one 
thing  was  wanting. 

'*  Oh,  but  isn't  this  the  blessed  day,"  she  ex 
claimed,  at  last ;  "  and  oh,  but  wasn't  I  the  heart 
broken  girl !  For,  you  see,  Kane  dear,  it  was  the 
death  of  her  poor  papa— poor,  dear,  old  Guardy 
Wyverne— that  upset  her  altogether.  And  not 
one  word,  good  or  bad,  would  she  speak  to 
me,  and  me  fretting  my  heart  out,  and  trying 
toget^from  her  even  a  look.  It's  mad  she 
was  entirely.  Insane,  and  out  of  her  head, 
and  no  mistake.  And  me  that  used  to  lie 
awake  all  night  long  crying  my  eyes  out  about 
her.  I  was  looking  forward  to  her  coming 


160 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


here  with  me  to  Mordaunt  Manor,  where  she'd 
get  over  her  grief.     But  never  a  word  could  I 
get  from  her.     Oh,  it's  mad  she  was — mad, 
and  nothing  else,  from  grief   and  trouble. 
There's  a  vein  of  madness  in  the  Wyverne 
family,  Kane  dear,  and  she's  got  a  touch  of 
the  family  complaint,  and  that's  all  about  it, 
and  there  you  have  it.     And  that's  how  it  was 
with  poor,  dear,  old  Guardy  Wyverne,  that 
for  the  last  two  or  three  months  of  his  life 
was  positively  out  of  his  mind  all  the  time. 
It  was  really  awful.    And  only  think,  at  the 
last,  he  really  mistook  poor,  dear,   darling 
Inez  for  me,   and  told  her  she  wasn't  his 
daughter,  and  that  excited  the  poor  darling 
so  that  her  own  mind  gave  way.     Oh,  I  saw 
it.      I   often  thought    about    that.      But  I 
thought  the  best  way  was  to  leave  her  alone, 
and  not  worry  her,  or  bother  her,  and  all  that, 
and   she'd    soon    come    around.      Oh,   why 
couldn't  she  have  been  more  frank  with  me  ? 
If  she  had  only  shown  me  that  letter  1    And 
who  is  this  Gounod  ?    What  an  awful  name ! 
And  only  think  of  her  running   away  on  a 
wild  errand  after  a  perfect  stranger  who  writes 
her  a  crazy  letter  I     Oh,  sure  but  it's  mad  she 
Tvas — poor,  dear,  darling,  old  Inez.     Really  it 
makes  me  shudder  when  I  think  of  it.     To 
run  away  so,  you  know.     I  was  frightenec 
out  of  my  wits  all  the  time,  and  I  shoulc 
have  gone  all  the  way  there  with  her,  but  I 
went  as  far  as  Southampton,  and  my  courage 
failed.    She  was  so  perfectly  awful,  you  know, 
Kane  dear;  and  do  you  know,  Kane  dear, 
she  didn't  speak  a  word  all  the  way  there, 
and  seemed  really  angry  that  I'd  come  ? 

"  And  then,  you  know,  Kane  dear,  I  went 

back and  oh,  but  it  was  me  that  had  the 

sore  heart,  and  then  I  had  to  go  to  Mordaunt 
Manor  at  once,  for  they  were  doing  something 
about  poor,  dear  Guardy  Wyverne's  estate, 
and  they  said  they'd  have  to  shut  up  his 
house  and  sell  every  thing.   So  I  had  to  come 
here  to  Mordaunt  Manor,  and  then  came  poor, 
dear,  darling  papa— and  oh,  he  was  so  very, 
very  ill !  and — and  you  know  what  happened." 
Here  Bessie's   emotion  made   her  break 
down ;  and,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands, 
she  sobbed  piteously.     It  was  very  sad,  and 
Kane's  eyes  moistened  as  he  saw  the  beauti 
ful  golden  head  bowed  down,  and  the  sLender 
frame  shaken  by  sobs.     Gwyn,  too,  was  over- 
come,  and  in  his  despair  tried  all  the  caresses 
of  which  he  was  capable  to  soothe  Bessie's 
agitated  feelings. 


At  length  she  revived  and  raised  her  head, 
but  kept  her  eyes  fixed  mournfully  on  the  floor. 
"  It's  easy  to  see  how  her  letters  missed 
me,"  said  she,  sadly.  "She  had  directed 
them  to  London,  and  they  never  reached  me. 
I  left  no  directions  about  forwarding  letters, 
for  I  never  expected  to  get  any,  and  didn't 
give  it  a  thought.  Its  heart-broke  I  was 
about  dear,  darling  Inez,  and  I  never  thought 
of  any  thing.  How  could  her  letters  ever  get 
to  me  ?  And  so  there  she  was,  and  there  she 
is  now — and  oh,  my  darling,  darling  Iny !  my 
sweet,  sweet  sister !  what  a  power  of  suffer- 
ing  you've  had  to  bear  ! " 

Kane's  eyes  now  overflowed.  He  was  a 
brave,  strong,  resolute  man,  but  he  was  very 
tender-hearted,  and  the  sight  of  Bessie's  grief 
was  too  much.  Gwyn,  also,  was  overcome. 

"  And  oh,  Kane  dear,  why  didn't  you  tell 
me  last  night  ?  I'll  go  to  her  at  once.  We 
must  all  go." 

At  this  Kane  smiled.  It  was  just  what  he 
most  longed  for. 

"But  I'll  write  her  too,"  said  Bessie, 
"  first  of  all,  in  case  of  any  delay  on  our 
part.  I'll  write  her  this  night,  for  I  ^can't 
leave  at  once,  not  for  a  day  or  two,  and  if  she 
only  gets  a  letter  to  know  I'm  coming,  it'll 
cheer  her  a  little,  and  she'll  wait  patiently, 
the  poor,  sweet  darling  1  So  you'll  give  me 
her  address  now,  Kane  dear." 

As  Bessie  said  this  she  drew  a  tablet  from 
her  pocket,  and,  taking  out  the  pencil,  handed 
it  to  Kane. 

Kane  took  the  pencil  and  tablet,  and  wrote 
the  address  of  Inez. 

Then  they  talked  long  and  tenderly  of 
their  absent  friend,  and  when  at  last  the  time 
came  for  Bessie  to  retire,  she  held  her  cheek 
for  Kane  to  kiss,  and  said : 

"Good-night,  Kane  dear,  and  pleasant 
dreams  to  you  1 " 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE   TEMPTER. 

was  joyous  over  the  prospect  of 
Bessie's  journey  to  Inez,  and  still  more  so  at 
her  eagerness  and  her  promptness.  On  the 
following  day,  Bessie  informed  him  that  she 
had  written  and  sent  her  letter,  and  that  she 
would  not  be  able  to  set  out  herself  for  two 
or  three  days  yet.  Such  a  delay  did  not  seem 


THE    TEMPTER. 


161 


long  to  Kane,  who  now,  that  the  future  o 

Inez  seemed   secure,  felt  less  haste  to   se 

her  again.      He   could   well  afford  to   sta 

here  a  little  longer,  where  all  was  so  pleas 

ant;    and   now  that  this   troublesome  mat 

ter  had  been  arranged,  the  enjoyment  whic 

he  found  in  his  visit  was  more  pure  and  un 

alloyed  than  it  had  thus  far  been.     Gwyn 

seconded  Bessie's  proposal  with  the  earnest 

ness  that  might  have  been  expected  of  him 

and  it  was  arranged  that  in  three  days  they 

should  all  set  out   together.     In  the  mean 

time,  the  active  nature  of  Kane  required  em 

ployment,  and  the  Witch's  Rock  once  more 

recurred  to  his  mind  more  attractively  than 

ever.     Bessie  was  the  first   to  mention  it 

She  did  it,  in  a  laughing  way,  by  asking  him 

if  he  still  intended  to  get  his  knife  before  hi 

left.     The  question  was  met  by  an  eager  dec 

laration,  on  Kane's  part,  that  he  would  make 

an  attempt  on  the  cliff  that  very  day.     His 

simple  preparations  had  already  been  made, 

and  it  only  remained  to  set  forth  for  the 

scene  of  action. 

On  the  way  there,  Bessie  was  more  lively, 
more  radiant,  and  more  charming,  than  ever. 
With  Kane,  who  was  full  of  his  enterprise, 
she  kept  up  an  incessant  conversation  of  the 
most  animated  character,  principally  about 
the  Witch's  Rock.  She  made  him  tell  the 
story  of  his  old  exploit  all  over.  She  was 
particular  as  to  the  shape  and  size  of  the 
cave,  and  the  way  in  which  he  had  swung 
himself  backward  and  forward.  And,  as  she 
listened,  she  laughed  and  shuddered  by  turns, 
till,  in  her  excitement,  she  seemed  almost 
hysterical.  Kane  was  too  much  engrossed 
with  his  plan  and  purpose,  and,  as  yet,  too 
little  acquainted  with  her,  to  notice  any  thing 
unusual  in  her  manner,  but  Gwyn  was  very 
forcibly  impressed  by  it.  Gwyn,  indeed,  was 
himself  unusually  silent,  and  seemed  some 
what  depressed.  This  may  have  been  on  ac 
count  of  some  forebodings  of  indefinable  ca 
lamity  in  his  own  mind  ;  or  it  may  have  been 
anxiety  on  account  of  the  unusual  and  un 
healthy  excitement  of  Bessie  ;  or  it  may  have 
been,  after  all,  merely  the  natural  silence  and 
obscurity  which  befalls  one  who  makes  a 
third  party  where  the  other  two  are  uncom 
monly  talkative  and  lively. 

^  In  this  way  they  reached  the  place.  The 
cliff  was  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  which  was 
easily  climbed  by  a  moderate  acclivity  about 
half  a  mile  off.  By  ascending  this  they  were 


able  to  reach  the  edge  of  the  cliff  without 
difficulty,  and  here  Kane  fiuag  down  his  rope 
and  began  to  make  the  necessary  preparations 
for  his  descent. 

The  hill  was  a  long  one,  of  moderate  ele 
vation,  being  a  spur  thrown  out  from  Skid- 
daw  ;  and  the  cliff  was  formed  by  its  abrupt 
termination  on  one  side.  It  was,  as  has  been 
said,  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  in 
height.  The  top  overhung  slightly,  and  at 
the  bottom  was  a^wilderness  of  sharp  rocks, 
the  debris  of  the  cliff,  which  had  been  dis 
lodged  in  the  course  of  centuries  by  frost  and 
storm,  and  had  fallen  here. 

The  changes  which  had  taken  place  here 
since  Kane  was  a  boy  were  not  very  exten 
sive.  On  looking  about  him,  he  recognized 
several  landmarks  without  difficulty.  In  par 
ticular,  he  noticed  a  large  oak-tree,  around 
whose  trunk  he  had  then  fastened  his  line; 
and  around  the  same  tree  he  proposed  to 
fasten  it  again.  This  tree,  fortunately,  stood 
over  the  very  place  where  the  cavern  was, 
and  consequently  was  by  far  the  best  point 
from  which  to  start  on  an  attempt  of  this 
nature. 

Kane  bound  his  rope  about  this  tree  with 
a  security  and  a  dexterity  which  indicated  a 
practised  hand.  After  this  he  flung  the  re 
mainder  of  the  rope  over  the  cliff,  and  looked 
over  to  see  how  far  it  reached.  It  went  down 
more  than  half  the  way.  Then  he  took  a 
carriage-rug,  which  he  had  brought  with  him, 
and  put  it  under  the  rope  where  it  ran  over 
the  edge  of  the  cliff,  so  as  to  prevent  any 
danger  that  might  arise  from  the  grinding  of 
the  rope  against  the  rock. 

As  he  made  these  preparations,  he  kept 
up  an  incessant  flow  of  lively  and  joyous  re 
marks  ;  and  jested  about  the  witch,  who,  ac- 
jording  to  tradition,  ought  still  to  be  there, 
nd  who,  he  maintained,  was  bound  to  punish 
lira  in  some  way  for  his  former  intrusion  into 
her  abode.  With  this  Bessie  chimed  in,  and 
vas  very  merry  over  an  absurd  picture  which 
he  suggested  of  a  fight  between  Kane  and 
he  witch  in  mid-air,  the  one  swinging  from  a 
ope,  and  the  other  flying  on  her  broom- 
tick. 

This  conversation,  absurd  though  it  might 
>e,  was  yet  destined  to  be  memorable  to  one 
f  these  two  speakers. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  laughter  and 
merriment,  that  Kane  advanced  to  the  edge 
f  the  cliff,  and  prepared  to  descend. 


162 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


"  Good-by,  Kane  dear,  and  take  care  of  ! 
yourself,"  said  Bessie,  with  a  smile. 

"  Good-by,"  said  Kane  ;  "  never  fear.    I'll 
get  that  knife." 

The  next  moment  he  had  descended  over 
the  edge,  and  was  out  of  sight. 

All  this  time  Gwyn  had  said  not  a  word. 
He  stood  with  a  clouded  brow,  and  looked  on 
abstractedly.  There  was  trouble  in  his  mind. 
Kane,  however,  had  not  noticed  this  ;  for  his 
attention  was  altogether N  engrossed  by  his 
preparations,  and  by  Bessie.  Thus  Gwyn  had 
watched  Kane  in  silence  while  he  bound  the 
rope  about  the  tree,  while  he  wrapped  the 
carriage-rug  around  it,  and  while  he  went 
over  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  Then  he  walked 
slowly  forward  and  knelt  down. 
He  looked  over. 

The  knotted   rope    hung  far  down,   and 
there  below  him  was  Kane  clinging  to  it  with 
his  muscular  gripe,  and  letting  himself  down 
farther   and  farther.      As    he   went   farther 
down,  and  increased  the   distance  between 
himself  and  the  top  of  the  cliff,  there  began  a 
vibration  of  the  rope,  and  Gwyn  could  see 
his  brother  slowly  swinging  to  and  fro  with  a 
movement  that  increased   as  he  descended. 
The  sight  had  something  in  it  which  to  Gwyn 
was  intolerable,  and,  turning  away,  he  stood  up. 
As  he  did  so,  he  felt  a  slight  touch  on  his 
arm.     He   turned  with  a  sharp  and  sudden 
movement.     There  seemed  something  in  that 
touch  which  was  strangely  startling  to  him. 
Yet,  when  he  turned,  he   saw  only  Bessie. 
Unusual,  indeed,  was  it  for  the  touch  of  the 
gentle  hand  of  this  young  wife  to  give  such  a 
shock  to  so  loving  a  husband.     But  Gwyn 
had  not  been  himself  all  this  day.     There  had 
been  something  on  his  mind  ;  and  this  some 
thing  had  transformed  him. 

So  now  he  turned,  and  saw  Bessie.  Her 
face  was  perfectly  calm  and  placid,  and  her 
large,  soft,  deep-blue  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his 
with  that  open,  childlike  gaze  which  formed 
the  sweetest  and  most  attractive  peculiarity 
of  Bessie's  face.  For,  when  Bessie  looked 
full  upon  any  other  person,  there  always 
seemed  in  her  face  such  a  suggestion  of  youth 
and  innocence  that  the  one  who  encountered 
it  never  failed  to  feel  attracted.  Never  be 
fore  had  Gwyn  failed  to  be  affected  by  her 
sweet  glance,  but  now,  as  he  encountered  it, 
there  was  no  response  on  his  part ;  nor  did 
his  brow  relax  in  the  slightest  degree  from 
that  gloom  into  which  it  had  settled. 


But  Gwyn's  look  produced  no  effect  what, 
ever  upon  Bessie.  Whether  she  noticed  it  or 
not,  did  not  appear.  Perhaps  she  did  ob 
serve  it,  but  attached  no  importance  to  it ;  or 
perhaps  she  was  too  much  taken  up  with  her 
own  thoughts  to  regard  any  thing  external. 
She,  therefore,  looked  at  him  with  her  usual 
expression,  and  with  that  same  good-natured 
and  fascinating  smile  upon  her  lips  which  she 
always  wore,  and,  with  a  tender,  confiding 
gesture,  she  stole  her  little  hand  toward  that 
of  Gwyn. 

As  her  hand  touched  that  of  her  husband, 
he  shrank  back  and  turned  away  his  head. 
This  movement  was  too  apparent  to  be  unno 
ticed,  and  Bessie  stood  with  her  hand  still 
stretched  out,  looking  at  her  husband  in  si 
lence  for  a  few  moments.  The  smile  did  not 
pass  from  her  face,  nor  did  she  appear  to  be 
in  the  least  degree  offended  or  hurt.  On  the 
contrary,  after  a  slight  hesitation,  she  re 
newed  her  advances  in  such  a  way  that  they 
admitted  of  no  rejection,  for  she  stepped  tow 
ard  him  and  quietly  took  his  arm. 

"  Sure,  Gwynnie  dear,"  said  she,  "  you're 
not  yourself  at  all  at  all  this  day.  Not  one 
vord  have  you  spoken,  good  or  bad,  since 
_ast  night.  And  I'm  sure  I  think  you're 
really  unkind.  Haven't  you  ever  a  word  at 
all  at  all  to  throw  to  a  poor  little  girl  that's 
fairly  heart-broken  with  such  coldness  and 
neglect  ?  " 

Bessie,  as  she  said  this,  leaned  tenderly, 
lovingly,  and  confidingly,  upon  her  husband's 
arm,  and  looked  up  into  his  face  with  her 
sunniest  smile.  But  Gwyn  stood  with  his 
face  averted,  and  his  eyes  looking  far  off  at 
vacancy,  and  the  cloud,  still  dark  and  gloomy, 
over  his  brow.  The  broad,  serene  tranquil 
lity  that  once  had  reigned  there— the  frank, 
open,  boyish  look  that  had  once  distinguished 
him  was'gone,  and  in  its  place  there  had  come 
the  shadow  of  some  stern,  dark,  unhallowed 
thought,  such  as  had  never  before  been  known 
to  his  honest  soul.  And  it  was  the  spell  of 
this  thought  that  at  this  moment  held  him 
bound,  so  that  he  remained  inaccessible  to 
Bessie's  witchery,  to  her  smile  of  sweetness, 
her  glance  of  tenderness,  and  her  words  of 
love.  There  was  a  change  in  him  beyond  a 
doubt,  and,  whether  that  change  should  be 
transient  or  permanent,  depended  very  much 
upon  the  issues  of  this  hour. 

After  waiting  patiently  for  some   time, 
Bessie  found  that  Gwyn  would  not  look  at 


THE   TEMPTEE. 


163 


her ;  so,  with  a  little  sigh,  she  looked  away, 
and  at  the  same  time  nestled  more  closely  to 
him,  clasping  his  arm  in  both  of  hers. 

"  Sure  and  he  must  have  the  steady  nerves, 
so  he  must — mustn't  he,  Gwynnie  dear?  " 

To  this  Gwyn  murmured  something  which 
was  apparently  intended  for  a  reply,  but  was 
quite  unintelligible.  It  seemed  to  encourage 
Bessie,  however.  She  pressed  his  arm  closer, 
and  one  of  her  hands  sought  out  his,  and  this 
time  succeeded  in  finding  a  place  where  it  lay 
nestling. 

"  And  he  must  be  down  an  awful  distance, 
so  he  must — mustn't  he,  Gwynnie  dear  ?  " 
continued  Bessie,  after  a  few  moments,  mak 
ing  another  venture  to  mollify  Gwyn,  and 
draw  him  into  a  conversation. 

To  this  Gwyn  once  more  replied  as  before, 
in  an  inarticulate,  unintelligible  way. 

"  And  oh,  but  it's  the  heavy  man  he  must 
be,  and  a  heavy  weight  on  the  end  of  that  bit 
of  string,"  continued  Bessie,  who  seemed  to 
be  cautiously  feeling  her  way  onward  into  a 
conversation  about  whose  reception  she  felt 
doubtful. 

Gwyn  drew  a  long  breath,  and  said  noth 
ing. 

Bessie  stole  a  look  up  at  his  face.  It  was 
still  averted.  It  was  averted  purposely.  He 
was  forcing  himself  to  look  away  for  some 
reason  or  oth  er,  and  this  Bessie  could  easily  see. 
"  It's  awfully  dangerous,  so  it  is — isn't  it, 
then,  Gwynnie  darling  ?  "  said  she  again,  in  a 
low  voice.  Gwyn  said  nothing. 

"  Gwynnie,"  said  Bessie,  pressing  his  arm 
— "  Gwynnie,  why  won't  you  speak  ?  " 
Gwyn  drew  a  long  breath. 
"  I  think,"  said  he,  "  we  are  standing  too 
near  the  edge." 

"  Sure  and  what  danger  is  there  ?  "  said 
Bessie.  "  It's  like  a  rock  you  are,  so  it  is, 
Gwynnie  dear,  and,  when  you  are  with  me, 
never  a  fear  have  I." 

She  said  these  words  tenderly  and  loving 
ly,  and  pressed  his  arm  again.  For  a  moment 
the  cloud  on  Gwyn's  brow  seemed  to  be  dis 
pelled  at  the  softer  emotion  which  Bessie's 
caress  had  caused,  but,  in  another  moment, 
the  tenderness  had  passed,  and  the  stern  look 
came  back. 

"  We  must  not  stand  so  near  it,"  said  he, 
in  a  harsh  voice.  "  It's  too  dangerous." 

With  these  words  he  stepped  back  about 
half  a  dozen  paces,  while  Bessie  accompanied 
him,  still  clinging  to  his  arm.  Here  they 


both  stood  in  the  same  attitude  in  which  they 
had  been  before,  Bessie  still  clasping  his  arm. 
A  short  silence  followed.  Bessie  looked  at 
the  ground ;  Gwyn,  as  before,  stood  looking 
far  away  at  vacancy. 

All  around  them  lay  a  beautiful  scene ; 
beneath  the  brow  of  the  cliff  was  the  valley, 
and  beyond  rose  wooded  heights.  The  pass 
ing  breeze  sighed  and  murmured  through  the 
trees,  and  the  twitter  of  sparrows  arose 
through  the  air.  But  nothing  in  this  scene 
was  perceived  by  Gwyn,  in  that  deep  abstrac 
tion  of  soul  into  which  he  had  been  plunged. 
But  Bessie's  eyes  rested  upon  the  rope  which 
ran  along  the  ground  before  her,  holding 
suspended  in  mid-air  the  precious  burden 
of  a  human  life. 

"  It  would  be  a  shocking  thing,  so  it 
would,"  said  she,  at  length,  "if  any  thing 
were  to  happen  to  him,  and  it's  not  unlikely. 
Stranger  things  than  that  have  happened, 
and  it's  a  highly-dangerous  venture." 

At  these  words  Gwyn  frowned  more  dark 
ly,  and,  with  a  quick  gesture,  withdrew  his 
arm  from  Bessie's  clasp,  and,  stepping  away 
a  foot  or  two,  he  stood  in  gloomy  silence. 

"  What  made  you  let  him  go  down,  Gwyn 
nie  dear  ?  "  asked  Bessie,  in  a  low  voice,  af 
ter  watching  him  in  silence  for  a  few  mo 
ments. 

Gwyn  made  no  reply. 

"  It's  a  small,  thin  rope,  and  might  grind 
tself  away  easy  enough,  so  it  might,"  con 
tinued  Bessie,  who,  as  she  spoke,  watched 
Gwyn's  face  closely,  as  though  wishing  to  see 
in  what  way  her  remarks  would  be  received  ; 
'  and  sure,"  she  continued,  after  a  pause, 
"  if  it  wasn't  for  the  bit  of  a  rug  that's  under 
it,  the  rope  would  have  ground  itself  out  by 
this  time.  And  oh,  but  wouldn't  it  be  the 
strange  thing,  Gwynnie  dear,  if  any  thing 
should  happen,  and  him  coming  here  on  such 
an  errand  ?  It  would  be  so  very — very — sad, 
wouldn't  it,  Gwynnie  darling  ?  " 

Bessie  did  not  seem  now  to  expect  any 
reply  to  her  remarks  in  words,  but  contented 
herself  with  watching  Gwyn's  face.  That 
face  changed  not,  except,  if  possible,  to  grow 
more  and  more  stern  and  dark  at  every  new 
word  of  hers.  Was  there  a  struggle  going  on 
within  him  at  that  hour  ?  Was  his  evil  ge 
nius  struggling  with  his  better  self?  He  said 
nothing,  nor  did  he  try  to  distract  his  thoughts 
by  any  converse  with  the  bright  and  pleasant 
being  at  his  side,  who  still  showed  the  same 


164 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


sunlight  in  her  eyes,  and  the  same  smile  on 
her  face. 

"  It's  so  very,  very  small  a  thing,"  she 
continued,  "  that  saves  him.  It's  the  bit  of 
a  rug,  so  it  is — nothing  more.  It's  the  rug 
that— that  keeps  dear  darling  Kane  from — 
from  being  taken  from  us,  isn't  it,  Gwynnie 
darling  ?  " 

"  I  wonder  how  far  he  is  down,"  she  con 
tinued  ;  "  sure,  but  wasn't  it  mad  in  him  to 
go,  and  the  rope  so  thin?  Sure,  and  if  it 
wasn't  for  the  bit  of  a  rug,  where'd  he  be 
now?  So  thin  it  is,  and  so  small,  and  so 
easily  cut — •" 

As  Bessie  said  this,  Gwyn  turned  his  face 
and  looked  at  her  with  a  terrible  glance.  His 
face  was  ghastly  pale,  and  big  drops  of  per 
spiration  covered  his  brow.  Bessie  looked  at 
him  with  her  usual  calm,  clear  gaze,  and  with 
the  same  pleasant  smile. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  look  at  me  so, 
Gwynnie  dearest,"  said  she,  at  length  ;  "  you 
really  make  me  feel  quite  nervous.  Come 
and  let  us  take  a  peep  down  and  see  where 
poor,  dear  Kane  is.  Come." 

She  started  off  toward  the  edge  of  the  cliff 
where  the  rope  went  over.     For  a  moment 
Gwyn  gasped  for  breath.     Then  he  said,  in  a 
harsh,  hoarse  voice : 
"  Don't  go  I " 

"  Oh,  but  I  just  will  then,"  said  Bessie, 
with  a  laugh.  "  Sure,  I'm  not  a  bit  afraid, 
though  you  seem  to  be.  Do  you  know, 
Gwynnie  dear,  I  begin  to  think  you're  a  sad 
coward,  so  I  do  ?  " 

With  these  words  she  tripped  lightly  tow 
ard  the  rope. 

"Bessie,  come  back  ! "  cried  Gwyn,  stern 
ly. 

"  Sure,  I'll  go  back  to  you  in  a  minute,  so 
I  will.  I  just  want  to  take  one  peep,  and  I'll 
show  that  I'm  braver  than  you,  so  I  will." 

With  these  words  she  stooped  down,  and 
knelt  by  the  rope,  just  at  the  edge  of  the 
cliff,  and  bent  her  head  down  low.  Her  left 
hand  rested  on  the  rug,  her  right  on  the  rock. 
Gwyn  stood  like  one  paralyzed  ;  there  was 
a  terrible  thought  in  his  mind ;  he  looked  at 
her  with  a  wild,  glassy  stare  of  horror. 

After  a  few  moments  Bessie  drew  back 
her  head,  and  turned  and  looked  at  Gwyn 
with  a  bright  smile.  Then,  still  holding  her 
left  hand  on  the  rug,  she  put  her  right  hand 
into  her  pocket,  as  though  she  intended  to 
draw  out  something. 


What  that  something  might  be  had  in  an 
instant  suggested  itself  to  Gwyn's  wild  fancy. 
A  groan  burst  from  him. 

He  sprang  toward  her,  and,  before  she 
could  be  aware  of  his  intention,  before  she 
could  even  shrink  back,  there  was  a  wild  and 
terrible  cry  in  her  ears.  She  felt  herself 
seized  in  a  fierce  and  resistless  grasp,  and 
torn  from  the  ground.  It  was  Gwyn's  hand, 
the  hand  which  never  before  hac  touched  her 
save  in  love  and  tenderness,  thnt  now  grasped 
her  with  the  fury  of  despair,  lie  seized  her 
in  his  arms.  For  a  moment  he  held  her  up 
lifted  from  the  ground,  and  Bessie  could  see 
his  face,  and  she  saw  in  it  that  which  made 
her  think  that  he  was  about  to  fling  her  over 
the  precipice.  For  a  moment  he  held  her 
there,  and  a  shriek  burst  from  her  which  was 
wrung  out  by  pain  and  by  terror.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  held  her — one  single  moment — and 
then  he  hurled  her  violently  away  from  him. 

She  fell  to  the  ground  headlong  and  heav 
ily.  She  lay  senseless. 

Her  beautiful  face,  marble  white,  lay  with 
her  cheek  on  the  hard  ground  ;  and  her  little 
hand,  the  right  hand,  which  she  had  inserted 
in  her  pocket,  still  held  in  its  grasp  a  simple 
handkerchief. 

For  a  moment  Gwyn  stood  horror-struck, 
then  he  staggered  toward  her  and  raised  her 
up.  The  handkerchief  in  her  hand  had  in  it 
something  piteous  ;  he  had  imagined  some 
thing  else  there.  He  had  imagined  horrors 
unspeakable.  And  this  was  all.  Trembling 
from  head  to  foot,  he  gently  laid  her  down 
again,  and  kissed  her  pale  face  fondly,  and 
tenderly  examined  her  to  see  if  she  had  re 
ceived  any  injury.  But,  even  at  that  dread 
moment,  there  was  in  his  mind  the  presence 
of  the  evil  thought  which  all  day  long  had 
darkened  his  soul;  and,  obeying  a  sudden 
impulse,  he  rushed  once  more  to  the  edge  of 
the  cliff  and  looked  down. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

[RENEWING  HIS  YOUTH. 

MEANWHILE  Kane  had  gone  steadily  down 
on  his  adventurous  descent.  The  rope  had 
been  formed  on  the  model  of  the  one  which 
he  had  used  when  a  boy,  and  was  very  well 
adapted  for  such  a  purpose.  The  knots  and 
loops  which  occurred  at  intervals  enabled  him 


RENEWING  HIS   YOUTH. 


165 


to  maintain  a  firmer  hold  than  would  other 
wise  have  been  possible,  and  to  secure  an  oc 
casional  rest  even  for  his  feet.  Gradually,  as 
he  went  down,  he  became  aware  of  one  cir 
cumstance  which  troubled  him  not  a  little 
This  was  the  vibration  of  the  rope.  With 
his  weight  at  the  end,  he  found  himself  vi 
brating  to  and  fro  like  the  pendulum  of  a 
clock,  and  the  farther  he  descended  the  Ion- 
ger  did  these  vibrations  grow.  But  he  wag 
not  one  who  could  easily  give  up  any  under 
taking  upon  which  he  had  once  fairly  entered, 
and  so,  in  spite  of  this,  he  still  continued  to 
descend.  Fortunate  was  it  for  him  that  he 
had  guarded  against  the  twisting  or  untwist 
ing  of  the  rope,  by  which  a  rotatory  motion 
might  have  been  given  to  him,  in  which  case 
he  could  scarcely  have  saved  himself  from 
dizziness,  but  this  he  had  contrived  to  pre 
vent  by  doubling  and  knotting  the  rope. 

He  continued,  therefore,  without  stopping, 
though,  at  length,  the  long  vibrations  of  the 
rope  grew  somewhat  troublesome.  At  first, 
these  oscillations  had  taken  place  in  a  line 
which  was  parallel  to  the  face  of  the  cliff,  but, 
as  he  went  farther  down,  this  line  of  motion 
gradually  changed  to  one  which  drew  in  more 
toward  the  cliff;  and  finally,  as  he  swung  in, 
his  feet  touched  the  rock.  An  oscillation  in 
this  direction  favored  his  purpose,  and  he 
sought  to  preserve  it  for  the  remainder  of  the 
way.  He  continued  descending,  therefore, 
until  at  length  he  found  himself  opposite  the 
famous  place  known  as  the  Witch's  Hole. 

This  place  was  very  peculiarly  situated. 
It  was  a  recess  in  the  face  of  the  cliff,  to 
which  there  was  no  access  whatever  except 
in  some  such  way  as  this.  The  sides  receded 
all  around  the  cave  for  some  eight  or  ten  feet, 
and  there  was  no  foothold  except  on  the  floor 
of  the  cave  at  its  mouth.  This  was  only  a 
small  space  about  six  feet  wide,  and  was  so 
difficult  of  access  that  one  single  occupant 
could  easily  have  defended  himself  against 
any  number  of  assailants.  As  Kane  reached 
a  point  opposite  this  place,  the  vibrations  of 
the  line  backward  and  forward  brought  him 
alternately  to  and  from  the  cave.  This  oscil 
lation  he  increased  by  working  his  body  in 
that  fashion  which  is  used  on  a  swing,  and 
thus  he  swung  himself  nearer  and  nearer.  At 
length  his  feet  touched  the  rock  on  one  side, 
and  he  was  able  to  kick  himself  off  in  such  a 
way  as  to  direct  the  next  movement  toward 
the  cave.  In  this  he  was  successful,  and  the 


next  inward  swing  brought  his  feet  to  the 
cave  floor.  Still  this  was  not  enough,  for  the 
impetus  had  not  been  sufficient  to  give  him  a 
foothold.  He  therefore  kicked  himself  off 
once  more  with  all  his  strength.  He  swung 
far  out,  and  then,  as  he  swung  back  again,  he 
watched  closely,  and  held  himself  all  gathered 
up  to  take  advantage  of  any  opportunity  of 
landing  on  the  floor  of  the  cave.  This  time 
he  was  swung  inside,  within  reach  of  a  rough 
rock  on  one  side  of  the  mouth  of  the  cave. 
This  rock  he  caught  at  with  his  feet.  For  a 
moment  he  held  himself  there,  and  then  grad 
ually  let  himself  down,  until  at  length  he 
reached  the  floor  of  the  cave.  He  then  care 
fully  pulled  in  the  rope,  and  fastened  it  about 
this  very  rock. 

He  had  reached  it  at  last,  but  the  effort 
had  been  an  exhaustive  one,  especially  these 
last  exertions  in  swinging  himself  into  the 
cave.  He  sat  down  for  a  short  time  and 
rested,  and  looked  all  around. 

The  cave  was  not  large.  In  fact  it  was 
rather  a  recess  than  a  cave,  and  was  merely  a 
fissure  in  the  cliff,  the  bottom  of  which  had 
filled  up  with  rubbish  sufficient  to  form  a 
floor.  Above,  its  sides  ran  up  till  they  met 
one  another  at  a  sharp  angle.  The  depth  of 
the  fissure  was  about  twenty-five  or  thirty 
feet,  and  its  width  some  eight  or  ten  feet. 
There  was  nothing  more  to  see  than  this,  and 
it  was  hardly  worth  the  risk  of  a  life. 

Perhaps,  if  the  history  of  this  cave  could 
have  been  told,  the  story  would  have  been 
one  quite  as  interesting  as  any  of  the  legends 
about  the  witch  which  had  grown  up  around 
"t.  Its  very  inaccessibility  had  probably 
caused  it  to  be  the  lurking-place  of  fugitives 
in  ages  of  the  past.  It  required  only  the  res 
olution  to  descend  as  Kane  had  done,  and 
;hen  they  were  safe.  Still  better  would  it 
lave  been  for  any  fugitive  here  to  keep  a  rope 
hanging  down  to  the  ground  below,  and  come 
and  go  in  that  way.  It  was  not  impossible, 
therefore,  or  even  unlikely,  that  this  cave  had 
jeen  the  scene  of  extraordinary  events  in  the 
past,  and  that  this  floor,  if  it  were  dug  up, 
might  disclose  articles  of  human  workman 
ship — arrow-heads,  stone  weapons,  earthen 
pottery — or  any  other  things  which  may  be 
eft  to  mark  the  place  where  man  has  once 
been.  Celts  may  have  fled  here  from  Saxons, 
"Saxons  from  Normans.  This  may  have  been 
he  refuge  of  fugitives  in  the  Wars  of  the 
Roses,  or  in  the  wars  of  the  Parliament. 


168 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


Protestant  or  Catholic  might  have  found  here 
a  safe  hiding-place  from  religious  persecu 
tion  ;  here  the  hermit  of  the  middle  ages,  the 
witch  of  the  Stuart  period,  and  the  outlaw 
of  a  later  age,  may  all  have  succeeded  to  one 
another. 

Kane,  however,  had  not  come  as  an  ex 
plorer,  nor  as  an  archffiologist.  He  had  not 
come  even  out  of  bravado,  though  it  might 
have  seemed  so.  He  had  come  to  reach  out 
a  hand  to  his  lost  boyhood ;  to  bring  back  a 
vanished  past.  He  had  come  to  renew  his 
youth,  to  repeat  his  boyish  exploit — above  all, 
to  get  his  knife,  left  here  long  years  before. 
He  did  not  allow  himself  much  time  for  rest 
ing,  A  few  minutes  sufficed,  after  which  he 
rose  and  walked  farther  in. 

He  went  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  cave, 
and  then  scanned  the  rocky  wall  carefully. 
He  was  anxious  to  see  whether  that  memo 
rial  of  his  former  visit  which  he  had  left  here 
was  still  visible.  His  curiosity  was  rewarded. 
There  on  the  dark  rock,  cut  in  large,  bold 
letters,  he  read  that  memorial  —  his  own 
name: 

"KANE   RUTHVEN." 

He  stood  looking  at  it  for  some  time  with 
varying  emotions,  while  all  that  past  came 
back  before  him — that  bright  past,  which 
Bessie  had  been  assisting  him,  or  rather  en 
couraging  him,  to  recall.  The  sight  of  this 
name  suggested  that  other  object  of  his  search 
— the  knife.  He  looked  down.  For  some 
time  he  saw  no  signs  of  any  thing ;  but,  at 
length,  an  object  met  his  sight,  lying  close 
against  the  rock,  and  looking  like  a  stone. 
He  picked  this  up. 

It  was  his  knife. 

Dust  and  mud  had  caked  about  it,  and 
the  blades  and  springs  were  all  rusted  to 
gether;  but,  nevertheless,  it  was  his  own 
knife — the  very  knife  which  he  had  carried 
down  here  as  a  boy,  and  with  which  he  had 
carved  that  name.  He  looked  at  it  with  a 
pensive  gaze,  and  then  slowly  returned  to  the 
mouth  of  the  cave.  Here  he  sat  for  some 
time,  looking  out.  But  it  was  not  the  scene 
outside,  magnificent  though  it  was,  which  met 
his  eyes.  His  gaze  was  fixed  upon  vacancy, 
and,  if  he  saw  any  thing,  it  was  the  forms 
and  scenes  of  the  past  which  his  memory 
brought  up  before  him. 

At  length,  he  started  up.  There  was 
nothing  more  to  be  done  here,  or  to  be  seen. 


He  had  exhausted  the  possibilities  of  the 
place,  and  had  gained  the  object  of  his  daring 
exploit.  Nothing  remained  now  but  to  re 
turn.  This  was  far  less  difficult  than  the 
descent.  He  had  no  trouble  now  about  di 
recting  his  course.  At  first,  as  he  let  him 
self  out,  the  long  swing  of  the  rope  was  troub 
lesome,  and  its  return  swing  threatened  to 
drive  him  with  somewhat  too  great  force 
against  the  rocks ;  but  this  he  guarded 
against,  and,  as  he  steadily  ascended,  the 
oscillations  grew  gradually  less. 

At  length,  he  reached  the  top  of  the 
cliff. 

As  his  head  rose  above  it,  he  expected  to 
see  Gwyn  and  Bessie;  he  expected  to  feel 
their  eager  hands  pulling  at  him  to  help  him ; 
to  hear  their  words  of  encouragement,  of 
wonder,  of  congratulation ;  to  see  their  faces 
full  of  sympathy  and  delight,  Bessie  with  her 
gentle  and  merry  glance,  Gwyn  with  his  broad, 
frank  face  and  hearty,  loving  ways.  All  this 
he  expected  to  see. 

But  there  was  no  voice  sent  down  as  he 
neared  the  summit;  no  hands  were  out 
stretched  ;  no  faces  full  of  welcome  smiles 
were  there.  There  was  silence,  and  it  was 
not  until  he  had  clambered  up  and  looked 
around  that  he  saw  what  scene  had  been 
awaiting  him  here  on  the  top  of  the  cliff. 

This  is  what  he  saw : 

A  prostrate  female  form,  and,  kneeling  by 
her  side,  a  man  with  a  ghastly  face  and  a 
look  of  horror.  Kane  saw  that  this  man  was 
Gwyn ;  yet  so  appalling  was  the  change  which 
had  taken  place  in  him  that  he  stood  dumb 
with  amazement.  For  Gwyn  seemed  ten 
years,  or  twenty  years,  older  than  when 
Kane  had  left  him.  To  his  fresh,  boyish 
look  had  succeeded  a  grim,  austere  face — a 
face  that  had  a  grayish  tinge  over  its  pallor ; 
and  over  it  there  was  spread  an  expression 
that  was  not  like  any  thing  which  Kane  had 
ever  before  seen  in  any  human  face.  And,  as 
he  looked,  there  came  across  him,  like  a  sud 
den  flash,  the  thought  that  it  looked  like  the 
face  of  a  man  who  had  been  tempted  of  the 
devil,  and  had  seen  him  face  to  face. 

Thus,  then,  it  was  that  Kane  came  back  to 
Gwyn  and  Bessie. 

Kane  walked  slowly  toward  his  brother. 
Thus  far  Gwyn  had  stared  at  him  with  a 
dazed  look ;  but  now,  as  he  approached,  he 
jumped  up  hastily  from  Bessie's  side,  and 
hurried  to  meet  him.  There  was  a  piteous 


RENEWING  HIS  YOUTH. 


167 


expression  now  on  his  face — one  of  eager 
welcome  that  seemed  struggling  to  surmount 
his  despair.  He  grasped  Kane's  hand  con 
vulsively  in  both  of  his,  and  gazed  at  him 
with  an  indescribable  look.  Kane  felt  be 
wildered.  All  this  was  incomprehensible. 
He  could  only  see  that  some  disaster  had 
happened.  The  prostrate  form  of  Bessie 
showed  that  she  was  concerned  in  this,  and 
the  anguish  of  Gwyn  was  intelligible  enough 
on  that  ground ;  yet  he  could  not  help  feeling 
astonished  that  Gwyn  could  have  the  heart, 
under  such  circumstances,  to  think  of  him, 
much  less  to  come  and  welcome  him  back  so 
eagerly.  He  could  not  possibly  know  what 
had  occurred,  nor  could  he  even  conjecture 
the  inconceivable  importance  which  his  re 
appearance  had  in  Gwyn's  eyes. 

"Heavens!"  cried  Kane.  "What's  all 
this  ?  What  has  happened  to  her  ?  " 

He  thought  only  of  Bessie  now.  With 
this  thought,  he  wondered  at  Gwyn's  apparent 
forgetfulness  of  her ;  and  so  he  tore  his  hand 
from  his  brother's  grasp,  somewhat  impa 
tiently,  and  hurried  over  to  the  prostrate  form. 
Bessie  was  lying  on  her  back,  with  her 
face  upturned.  Her  eyes  were  closed ;  her 
lips  were  slightly  parted  ;  the  roseate  hue  of 
her  cheeks  had  given  place  to  a  waxen  pal 
lor  ;  and  her  waving  hair  flowed  like  a  flood 
of  golden  glory  about  her  forehead  and  neck 
and  shoulders.  She  was  motionless ;  she  was 
senseless.  It  was  a  piteous  spectacle. 

Piteous,  indeed,  it  seemed  to  Kane,  who 
bent  over  her  with  his  mind  full  of  remem 
brances  of  her  last  appearance,  and  thoughts 
of  the  contrast  between  that  and  this — the 
glow  of  health,  the  blue  eyes  fixed  on  him  in 
their  mirthful  innocence,  the  red  lips  curved 
into  merry  smiles,  the  dimpled,  rosy  cheeks, 
the  laughter,  the  jestings — above  all,  the  ten 
der,  loving  way  of  referring  all  her  thoughts 
and  all  her  joys  to  that  husband  whom  she 
loved  so  devotedly.  And  here  she  was  now  ! 
What  was  the  meaning  of  it  ?  Here  was 
Gwyn,  crushed.  Well  he  might  be.  Yet,  what 
did  it  all  mean  ? 

These  thoughts  filled  his  mind  as  he  knelt 
by  Bessie's  side  and  chafed  her  hands.  But, 
though  Gwyn  also  united  his  efforts  with  those 
of  Kane,  there  did  not  appear  any  signs  of 
returning  animation;  and,  at  length,  Kane 
advised  an  immediate  return  to  Ruthven 
Towers,  carrying  her  with  them  as  best  they 
could;  for  there  restoratives  could  be  ob 


tained  which  were  not  to  be  found  elsewhere. 
To  this  Gwyn  at  once  acceded.  Kane  was 
about  to  help  him  carry  Bessie  down  to  the 
carriage;  but  this  Gwyn  would  not  allow. 
The  proposal  seemed  to  excite  in  him  a  re 
pugnance  so  strong  that  it  amounted  to  noth 
ing  less  than  horror;  and  Kane,  who  could 
not  help  noticing  it,  was  filled  with  new  as 
tonishment.  Gwyn,  however,  said  nothing; 
and,  indeed,  he  had  not  spoken  a  word  all 
this  time.  Stolidly  and  silently  he  bent  down, 
and,  encircling  the  slender  form  of  his  sense 
less  wife  in  his  strong  arms,  lifted  her  lightly 
and  easily,  and  then  carried  her  to  the  car 
riage  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

Ruthven  Towers  was  not  very  far  away, 
and  the  carriage  drove  there  rapidly.  Gwyn 
held  Bessie  in  his  arms  all  the  way,  and 
looked  at  her  with  a  mixture  of  helplessness 
and  agony.  On  reaching  their  destination  he 
carried  her  himself  up  to  her  own  room,  and 
committed  her  to  the  care  of  her  attendants. 
A  doctor  was  hastily  sent  for,  and  Gwyn 
waited  in  despair  for  the  result. 

Meanwhile,  Kane  was  waiting  below  in  a 
state  of  the  deepest  anxiety  and  suspense. 
Dinner  came  and  went,  and  Kane  was  alone 
at  that  repast.  Not  long  after,  Gwyn  made 
his  appearance.  He  informed  Kane  gravely 
that  the  doctor  had  come  and  had  found  Bes 
sie  recovered  from  her  swoon ;  he  had  given 
her  a  sleeping-draught,  and  she  had  been 
sleeping  ever  since.  The  doctor  did  not  an 
ticipate  any  serious  results,  and  hoped  that 
in  two  or  three  days  she  would  be  herself 
again. 

To  Kane's  anxious  inquiries  as  to  the 
cause  of  the  accident,  Gwyn  replied  in  some 
what  vague  and  incoherent  terms,  for  he  was 
very  awkward  at  evading  the  truth,  and  un 
skilled  in  deceit  of  any  kind.  From  what  he 
did  say,  however,  Kane  gathered  the  informa 
tion  that  she  had  stumbled  somehow  against 
the  rope,  and  in  falling  had  struck  her  head. 
Of  the  part  that  Gwyn  had  taken  in  this  affair 
he  had  not  the  remotest  idea. 

All  that  night  Gwyn  remained  awake, 
hovering  about  in  the  neighborhood  of  Bes 
sie's  room,  and  anxiously  watching  the  prog 
ress  of  affairs.  Every  thing  went  on  well. 
Bessie  slept  soundly.  Her  face  had  regained 
its  usual  color,  and  she  showed  no  trace  of 
injury.  At  length  he  felt  so  hopeful  about 
her  that  he  went  to  bed.  It  was  about  dawn 
when  he  retired,  and  he  slept  until  late  in  the 


168 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


following  day.  His  first  thoughts  were  about 
Bessie,  and,  hastily  dressing,  he  hurried  at 
once  to  her  room. 

But  there  awaited  him  a  great  surprise. 

On  reaching  the  room  the  house-keeper 
met  him  and  handed  him  a  note.  At  the 
same  time  she  informed  him  that  Lady  Ruth- 
ven  had  passed  a  very  comfortable  night,  and 
had  awakened  early,  feeling  so  well  that  she 
had  gone  out  for  a  drive,  and  had  not  re 
turned. 

Gwyn  was  completely  overwhelmed  by 
this  intelligence.  He  took  the  letter,  and, 
looking  at  his  watch,  found  that  it  was  two 
o'clock.  On  inquiring  about  the  time  when 
Bessie  had  left,  he  learned  that  it  was  about 
six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  So  long  an  ab 
sence,  under  such  circumstances,  excited  his 
worst  fears,  and  the  despairing  thought  arose 
that  Bessie  had  punished  him  for  his  violence 
by  deserting  him  forever.  He  hurried  to  his  , 
room  with  the  letter,  and  for  some  time  was 
afraid  to  open  it,  for  fear  that  he  should  read 
his  doom.  At  length  he  could  no  longer  en 
dure  the  suspense,  and,  tearing  it  open,  he 
read  the  following : 

"I'm  quite  myself  again,  Gwynnie  dear 
est,  so  there's  no  use  in  life  for  you  to  be 
worrying  about  me.  I'm  going  out  for  a 
drive,  and  may  not  be  back  for  a  few  days. 
The  fact  is,  after  what  has  happened,  I  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  a  short  separa 
tion  will  be  best  for  both  of  us.  Do  you 
know,  Gwynnie  darling,  I  really  think  you 
must  have  been  insane,  and  your  head  was  full 
of  horrid  fancies.  You  had  some  awful  idea 
about  me  which  I  do  not  like  to  think  of.  It 
was  a  terrible  mistake,  so  it  was.  I  hope 
that,  if  you  are  by  yourself  for  a  little  while, 
you  will  see  how  very,  very  wrong  you  were, 
and  how  fearfully  you  have  misunderstood  your 
poor  Bessie.  Adieu,  then,  Gwynnie  dearest, 
and  an  revoir.  I  forgive  all,  and  love  you 
with  all  my  heart,  dear.  Don't  forget, 
"  Your  own  loving 

"  BESSIE." 

This  letter  drove  away  the  worst  part  of 
Gwyn's  distress,  but  still  there  remained  the 
deepest  longing  to  see  her,  and  the  strongest 
anxiety  about  her  health.  The  very  forgive 
ness  which  she  granted  him  increased  these 
desires  after  her,  and  he  hurried  at  once  to 
the  stables.  Here,  to  his  intense  joy,  he 
found  that  the  carriage  had  returned  in  which 


Bessie  had  gone,  and  that  it  had  only  taken 
her  to  Mordaunt  Manor,  whereupon  he  mount 
ed  a  horse  and  rode  there  with  the  utmost 


On  reaching  Mordaunt  Manor  the  porter 
handed  him  a  letter,  and  informed  him  that 
Lady  Ruthven  had  gone  away  along  with  Mrs. 
Lugrin,  leaving  this  for  him.  It  was  only  with 
a  violent  effort  that  Gwyn  concealed  the  emo 
tion  which  he  felt  at  this  intelligence,  and, 
taking  the  letter  in  silence,  he  turned  away, 
full  of  wonder  and  apprehension.  He  had 
come,  full  of  love  and  longing,  to  hear  Bes 
sie's  words  of  forgiveness,  and  to  bring  her 
back.  But  she  was  gone,  and  he  turned  away 
with  an  appalling  sense  of  desolation.  What 
did  this  mean  ?  Had  she  gone  back  from 
her  word  ?  Had  Mrs.  Lugrin  persuaded  her 
to  retract  her  forgiveness  and  punish  him 
more  severely  ?  This  looked  like  it. 

But  speculation  was  idle.  Here  was  her 
letter  in  his  hand,  and  she  herself  spoke 
there. 

He  tore  it  open  and  read : 

"  GWYNNIE  DARLING  :  When  you  get  this 
I  shall  be  on  my  way  to  Paris.  Do  notice  at 
all  uneasy  about  me,  darling,  for  I  assure  you 
I  am  quite  myself  again.  If  you  had  been 
awake  this  morning  I  would  have  explained, 
but  you  were  asleep,  and  I  kissed  you  for 
good-by,  dearest. 

"  You  see,  I  feel  awfully  uneasy  about 
poor,  dear,  darling  Inez,  and  I  am  frantic  to 
see  her  ;  and,  when  I  came  here,  I  found  Mrs. 
Lugrin  willing  to  accompany  me,  so  I  decided 
to  go.  You  and  dear  Kane  will  come  on  im 
mediately,  of  course,  for  I  know,  Gwynnie 
dearest,  you  will  be  quite  unable  to  live  more 
than  two  or  three  days  without  me  ;  so,  when 
you  come,  you  will  find  me  with  my  mamma's 
papa,  dear  Grandpa  Magrath,  at  the  Hotel 
Gascoigne,  125  Rue  de  la  Ferroniere.  And 
now,  once  more,  good-by,  darling,  and  don't 
forget,  Your  own  loving 

"  BESSIE. 

"  P.  S. — You  may  as  well  show  this  to  dear 
old  Kane,  Gwynnie  darling,  for  it  will  explain 
my  somewhat  abrupt  departure.  Once  more, 
good-by.  BESSIE." 


REPENTANCE. 


169 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

REPENTANCE. 

ON  turning  away  from  Mordaunt  Manor, 
Gwyn  was  quite  unconscious  of  the  way  in 
which  he  was  going;  and,  if  his  horse  di 
rected  his  steps  homeward,  it  was  more  from 
his  own  inclination  than  from  any  direction 
of  his  rider.  As  for  Gwyn,  his  thoughts  were 
busy  with  the  events  and  experiences  of  the 
previous  day.  He  went  over  all  that  he  had 
thought,  and  said,  and  done ;  he  recalled  all 
Bessie's  words,  and  acts,  and  looks ;  he  ar 
raigned  himself  and  her  before  the  bar  of  his 
conscience,  and  passed  every  thing  in  review 
up  to  that  culminating  scene  on  the  preci 
pice. 

A  dark  thought  had  been  suggested  to 
him.  It  had  come  first  from  Bessie,  when 
she  lamented  the  prospect  that  was  now  be 
fore  them,  when  she  recoiled  from  the  thought 
of  poverty,  and  preferred  that  evil  should  hap 
pen  to  Kane  rather  than  to  them.  This  thought 
had  passed  into  Gwyn's  mind,  and  had  taken 
root  there.  Thus  far  he  had  been  an  honor 
able  gentleman,  with  an  upright  and  loyal 
soul ;  but  all  men  have  their  peculiar  temp 
tations,  and  this  proved  to  be  the  very  one 
which  was  most  dangerous  to  him.  It  came 
so  insidiously,  it  came  from  her  whom  he 
adored  and  idolized,  it  was  enforced  by  her 
grief,  her  tears,  and  her  loving  caresses.  In 
the  midst  of  their  happiness  one  had  come 
who  was  to  expel  them  from  their  paradise, 
and  Bessie's  nature  could  not  endure  the 
thought.  So  this  temptation  had  come  most 
insidiously,  most  powerfully;  and,  having 
once  entered  into  his  mind,  it  had  taken  root, 
and  grown,  strengthened,  and  fostered,  and 
developed,  by  events  and  by  words  in  which 
both  Kane  and  Bessie  had  borne  a  part. 

Thus  the  thought,  "  If  he  had  never  come," 
became  a  wish :  "  Oh,  that  he  had  never 
come  !  "  "  Oh,  that  he  had  been  dead 
when  we  supposed  him  to  be  ! "  "  Oh,  that 
he  were  dead  now  !  "  It  thus  grew  and  en 
larged  itself,  until  Gwyn  found  himself  at 
last  wishing  for  the  death  of  that  very  broth 
er  over  whose  return  he  had  but  lately  re 
joiced  with  sincere  and  enthusiastic  joy. 

It  was  Bessie  who  shaped  his  thoughts  to 
this  ;  it  was  Bessie  who  was  the  cause  of  this 
•wish,  who  alone  gave  it  any  point  or  mean 
ing.  He  could  not  bear  to  see  her  tears.  He 


could  not  bear  the  thought  of  any  misfortune 
befalling  her.  He  had  brought  her  here  to  a 
home  which  she  loved,  and  he  could  not  bear 
to  see  her  expelled. 

Then  came  circumstances  which  changed 
the  secret  wish  into  a  temptation  to  act. 
There  was,  above  all,  the  proposal  to  go  over 
the  cliff.  Had  it  not  been  for  this,  Gwyn's 
wish  might  have  eventually  died  a  natural 
death  from  lack  of  opportunity.  But  the 
temptation  came  as  it  comes  to  many  a  man, 
and,  following  close  upon  the  temptation, 
there  came  also  the  opportunity. 

That  opportunity  reached  its  height  on 
the  top  of  the  cliff  when  Kane's  head  disap 
peared  from  view  as  he  descended  on  his 
perilous  journey.  As  Gwyn  stood  there  in 
gloomy  silence,  he  was  wrestling  with  the 
Tempter,  who  now,  in  his  utmost  power,  was 
urging  him  to  act.  This  was  the  conflict  in 
which  he  was  engaged,  and  at  this  moment 
it  was  Bessie  herself  who  interposed  and 
lent  her  aid,  not  to  the  tempted,  but  to  the 
Tempter. 

It  had  been  her  misfortune  all  along  to 
aid  the  Tempter  and  to  weaken  her  husband. 
She  it  was  who  earnestly  urged  Kane  to  his 
adventure  when  she  should  have  dissuaded 
him;  she  it  was  who  encouraged  him,  and 
jested  with  him  up  to  the  last  moment,  all 
unmindful  of  her  husband's  anguish;  and 
she  it  was  who  now,  at  this  supreme  mo 
ment,  came  forth  to  deal  a  final  blow  upon 
his  fainting  resolution.  It  was  as  though  the 
Tempter  had  suddenly  assumed  form;  as 
though  the  devil  had  appeared  in  the  shape 
of  an  angel ;  and  not  only  an  angel,  but  more, 
the  one  whom  he  loved  better  than  life,  and 
better  than  his  own  soul — his  beautiful  young 
bride. 

What  was  it  that  she  had  said  ?  She  had 
said  all  that  was  worst  at  such  a  moment. 
Every  word  that  she  uttered  was  a  sugges 
tion  of  this  opportunity ;  every  word  was  an 
expression  of  that  dark  temptation  whose  ac 
complishment  was  now  so  easy.  Each  word 
that  she  spoke  was  worse  than  its  predeces 
sor  ;  and,  finally,  at  the  close  of  this  great 
agony  of  soul,  the  climax  was  reached,  when 
she  stepped  to  the  rope  with  the  intention,  as 
he  thought,  of  doing  the  deed  herself.  She 
called  him  "coward"  as  she  turned  away, 
and,  as  she  stooped  to  the  rope,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  her  gentle  smile  concealed  a  terribla 
purpose,  and  that  her  hand  sought  her  pock- 


170 


AN   OPEN"   QUESTION. 


et  to  draw  forth  a  knife.  Then  it  was  that 
the  spell  was  broken,  the  temptation  passed, 
and  he  tore  her  from  the  place  and  flung  her 
headlong. 

Such  was  the  history  of  this  temptation. 
And  what  then  ?  Was  this  so  ?  Was  Bes 
sie  indeed  a  Lady  Macbeth  of  more  delicate 
mould,  leading  on  her  husband  to  crime? 
Was  all  this  gentle  grace,  and  light-hearted 
mirthfumess,  and  childlike  innocence,  but  a 
mask  ?  Heaven  seemed  to  have  poured  its 
own  sunlight  over  her  brow,  and  into  her 
eyes,  and  through  her  heart ;  was  all  this  but 
a  mockery  ? 

No — a  thousand  times  no  !  The  moment 
that  this  thought  presented  itself,  that  mo 
ment  it  was  cast  out  utterly.  It  was  not 
worth  reasoning  about.  Even  if  his  love  had 
not  assured  him  of  her  innocence  and  truth, 
he  could  find  countless  ways  of  assuring  him 
self  of  this,  and  of  explaining  all. 

She  guilty?  As  well  call  Kane  himself 
guilty.  Her  first  words,  which  had  suggested 
the  dark  temptation,  he  now  considered  the 
thoughtless  and  natural  utterances  of  a  na 
ture  too  innocent  to  conceal  any  feeling  which 
it  has.  She  recoiled,  as  was  natural,  from  so 
great  a  sacrifice.  She  was  mournful,  pettish, 
unreasonable,  like  a  child  in  the  presence  of 
some  task  too  hard  for  its  accomplishment. 
She  had  no  concealment  of  any  thing  from 
her  husband,  and  these  transient  feelings 
were  thus  disclosed  in  the  fond  intimacy  of 
love.  They  passed  away,  for  on  the  next  day 
there  was  not  a  cloud  on  her  brow,  and  her 
manner  toward  Kane  was  as  frank  and  cor 
dial  as  before.  If  the  effect  on  him  was  more 
permanent,  it  was  not  her  fault. 

Then  came  Kane's  proposal  to  scale  the 
cliff,  which  Bessie  warmly  encouraged.  But 
this  was  Kane's  doing  principally,  and,  if 
Bessie  favored  the  plan,  it  could  hardly  be 
considered  as  a  sign  of  a  guilty  purpose.  So, 
too,  when  Kane  went  down  the  cliff,  Bessie 
remained  and  indulged  in  remarks  which 
Gwyn  now  considered  to  have  been  thought 
less  and  random,  without  the  slightest  idea 
of  any  deeper  meaning.  She  was  playful  and 
quiet  all  the  time  ;  and,  if  any  doubt  remained 
as  to  her  own  utter  freedom  from  guilt,  it  ex 
isted  in  that  final  proof  which  showed  itself 
before  his  eyes  so  piteously  when  Bessie  lay 
senseless  on  the  rock,  and  the  deadly  knife, 
which  he  believed  to  be  in  her  hand,  turned 
out  to  be  nothing  more  than  a  handkerchief. 


Between  the  deadly  knife  and  that  soft, 
white,  harmless  handkerchief,  Gwyn  now  saw 
a  difference  corresponding  with  that  which 
existed  between  the  tempting  devil  of  his 
fancy  and  the  soft,  innocent  being  whom  he 
had  so  terribly  wronged. 

Bessie  guilty  ?  What  madness !  Then, 
Kane  was  guilty  too.  Kane  had  as  much 
guilt  as  Bessie.  The  suggestion  had  come, 
and  the  opportunity,  from  both ;  but  both 
were  innocent,  nor  could  they  be  blamed  if 
his  own  mind  had  developed  these  things  into 
criminal  thoughts. 

Consequent  upon  such  thoughts  as  these 
came  endless  self-reproach,  which  had  never 
ceased  to  torment  him  since  he  had  hurled 
Bessie  senseless  to  the  rock.  He  shuddered 
now  at  his  own  madness.  A  thrill  of  horror 
passed  through  every  nerve  as  he  thought 
how  narrowly  he  had  escaped  being  the  mur 
derer,  not  of  Kane,  but  of  Bessie  herself. 
There  lived  in  his  memory  a  terrible  picture — 
that  scene  on  the  top  of  the  cliff,  where  Bes 
sie  lay,  pallid  as  death,  her  beautiful  face  on 
the  hard  ground,  her  lifeless  hand  outstretched 
and  displaying  in  mute  appeal  that  white  ker 
chief — fit  emblem  of  her  innocence — a  piteous 
sight,  a  sight  of  infinite  pathos,  one  which 
could  never  be  forgotten. 

Thoughts  like  these  were  terrible,  but 
Gwyn  could  not  banish  them.  All  his  blame 
was  for  himself;  all  his  love,  and  pity,  and 
fond  excuses,  were  for  his  injured  wife.  He 
could  not  blame  her  for  her  departure.  She 
had  wished  it.  Let  it  be.  He  would  submit. 
He  read  her  letter  over  and  over.  It  was  a 
sweet  consolation  to  his  bleeding  heart  that 
she  had  given  him  that  kiss  of  farewell.  It 
was  sweet,  also,  that  she  looked  forward  to 
his  joining  her  at  once.  This  now  was  his 
one  hope,  and  he  could  scarcely  control  the 
impatient  desire  which  he  had  to  follow  her. 
His  feelings  prompted  him  to  set  out  for  Paris 
at  once,  but  a  moment's  reflection  showed  that 
he  could  not  leave  Kane  so  abruptly ;  so  he 
had  reluctantly  to  continue  on  the  course 
which  his  horse  had  already  taken  for  him  to 
Ruthven  Tower?. 

He  now  began  to  feel  embarrassed  about 
meeting  with  Kane,  for  an  explanation  of 
some  kind  would  be  necessary  in  order  to 
account  for  the  utter  abruptness  of  Bessie's 
departure ;  and  he  did  not  at  first  see  how 
such  an  explanation  could  be  given  without 
disclosing  things  that  he  very  much  preferred 


REPENTANCE. 


171 


to  keep  secret.     But,  at  length,  a  very  natu 
ral  way  suggested  itself,  by  which  be  migh- 
account  for  it  all ;  and  this  was  Bessie's  own 
letter  to  himself.     In  this  last  letter  she  had 
not  referred  in  the  faintest  way  to  the  affair 
on  the  cliff,  nor  had  she  again  said  any  thing 
about  forgiveness.    It  was  a  letter  full  of 
loving  words,  ascribing  her  departure  solely 
to  her  anxiety  about  Inez,  and  her  eager  de 
sire  to  see  her.     Most  keenly  was  Gwyn  con 
scious  of  the  delicacy  of  feeling  which  had 
inspired  this ;  for,  though  he  was  convinced 
that  the  real  cause  of  her  departure  lay  in 
his  own  treatment  of  her,  yet  he  perceived 
that  she  had  adopted  this  affection  of  hers 
for  Inez  as  the  real  pretext ;  and  as  her  affec 
tion  for  Inez  was  undoubted,  and  Inez  was  in 
a  position  of  actual  peril,  the  pretext  was 
every  way  plausible.     He  therefore  concluded 
to  show  the  letter  to  Kane,  and  add  any  fur 
ther  explanation  which  might  be  needed,  in 
accordance  with  its  tone.     It  was  evident  to 
him  that  Bessie  had  this  in  her  mind,  and  had 
written  this  second  letter,  not  only  to  console 
him,  but  also  to  smooth  his  path  toward  ex 
plaining  it  to  Kane.     By  the  time  that  he  had 
reached  the  gates  of  Ruthven  Towers,  Gvvyn 
had  settled  this  in  his  mind,  and  was  there 
fore  in  a  position  to  meet  Kane  without  em 
barrassment. 

Meanwhile,  Kane  had  found  himself  in  a 
most  perplexing  situation.  On  waking  in  the 
morning,  he  had  inquired  after  Lady  Ruth- 
ven's  health,  and  had  been  informed  that  she 
was  quite  well  again.  Several  hours  passed, 
and  he  learned  that  Sir  Gwyn  was  still  sleep 
ing.  Upon  this,  he  went  off  on  a  long  stroll, 
from  which  he  did  not  return  till  about  four. 
On  coming  back  to  the  house,  there  was  a 
general  air  of  confusion,  which  excited  his 
attention.  On  inquiring  whether  Sir  Gwyn 
was  up,  the  servant  whom  he  asked  informed 
him  that  Sir  Gwyn  had  gone  hurriedly  to  Mor- 
daunt  Manor.  The  manner  of  the  servant 
was  so  singular  that  Kane  asked  some  more 
questions,  and  at  length  learned  the  astonish 
ing  news,  which  was  now  whispered  all  through 
the  house,  that  Lady  Ruthven  had  gone  away 
at  daybreak,  very  hurriedly,  and  that  her  hus 
band,  on  hearing  about  it,  had  set  out  in  pur 
suit  of  her  in  the  greatest  possible  haste.  All 
this  was  to  Kane  utterly  unintelligible,  and, 
though  the  servants'  gossip  gave  this  story 
the  very  worst  coloring  possible,  he  refused 
to  believe  it.  Still  the  fact  remained  that 


both  had  gone  away  most  abruptly,  without 
a  word  to  him ;  and  this  was  the  thing  that 
perplexed  him. 

The  return  of  Gwyn  put  an  end  to  this. 
Kane  walked  down  to  meet  him,  as  he  saw 
him  come  up,  and  could  not  help  noticing  the 
great  change  that  had  come  over  his  brother's 
face.  At  first,  he  felt  shocked,  and  antici 
pated  the  worst ;  but,  as  soon  as  Gwyn  saw 
him,  he  put  all  these  feelings  to  flight  by  the 
first  words  that  he  uttered. 

"  Well,  Kane,"  said  he,  with  an  attempt, 
that  was  not  altogether  successful,  at  his  old 
ease  and  cordiality  of  manner,  "you  must 
have  felt  awfully  puzzled  at  our  disappearance 
in  this  fashion.  But  the  fact  is,  Bessie  was 
so  wild  to  see  Inez  that  she  couldn't  wait  for 
us,  and  so  she  has  gone  off  to  Paris.  She 
was  all  right  this  morning,  just  as  well  as 
ever ;  and  as  I  had  been  up  all  night,  and 
wasn't  awake,  she  quietly  trotted  off  by  her 
self,  went  to  Mordaunt  Manor,  took  Mrs. 
Lugrin,  and  is  now  en  route  for  Paris.  See — 
here  is  her  letter.  I  went  off  after  her,  but 
was  too  late.  We'll  have  to  set  out  at 
once." 

As  Gwyn  said  this,  he  dismounted,  and 
produced  a  letter  from  his  pocket.  What  he 
had  said  was  spoken,  not  only  for  Kane's 
benefit,  but  also  for  the  benefit  of  the  ser- 
vants,  some  of  whom  were  within  hearing. 
Ee  wished  to  give  to  Bessie's  departure  a 
matter-of-fact  character,  so  as  to  prevent  any 
scandal.  In  this  he  succeeded  perfectly,  for 
those  who  heard  it  understood  by  his  words 
•hat  LadyRuthven's  departure  was  quite  nat 
ural,  and  that  her  husband  was  going  to  join 
her  at  once.  So  this  much  of  Gwyn's  pur 
pose  was  accomplished. 

To  Kane,  however,  these  words  only  af- 
brded  fresh  perplexity.  When  he  had  seen 
Bessie  last,  she  was  senseless ;  and  now  he 
earned  that  she  was  on  her  way  to  Paris. 
So  sudden  a  recovery,  combined  with  so  sud 
den  a  departure,  was  to  him  unaccountable. 
Why  could  she  not  have  waited  ?  He  said 
nothing — he  was  too  bewildered — but  waited 
o  hear  Gwyn's  further  explanations. 

Gwyn  now  led  the  way  into  the  house. 

"  I'll  show  you  her  letter,"  he  said.  "  It 
explains  all.  It  was  a  sudden  whim,  or  some 
sudden  fear  about  Inez,  you  know ;  and  she 
was  awfully  fond  of  her,  you  know ;  they  were 
like  sisters,  and  all  that — couldn't  wait  for 
us — had  to  go  the  first  moment  she  felt  strong 


172 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


enough.     Tell  you  what — we  had  better  start 
off  at  once." 

With  remarks  like  these,  of  a  decidedly 
jerky  character,  Gwyn  accompanied  his  broth 
er  into  the  house,  and  then  showed  him  Bes 
sie's  letter.  Kane  read  it  all  through  most 
carefully.  To  him  it  seemed  evident  that 
Bessie's  whole  motive  for  this  sudden  de 
parture  was  her  uneasiness  about  Inez,  and 
her  longing  desire  io  see  her.  Her  departure 
was  sudden,  yet  the  motive  that  had  prompted 
it  seemed  to  Kane  only  an  additional  proof 
of  the  noble,  the  loyal,  the  affectionate,  and 
the  self-sacrificing  friendship  of  Bessie  for 
Inez.  And  this  only  heightened  the  warm 
admiration  which  he  already  felt  for  Bessie. 
He  could  not  help  feeling  touched  by  this 
sudden  impulse,  in  obedience  to  which  she 
had  hurried  off  to  seek  and  to  save  her 
friend. 

But  with  the  admiration  which  he  felt  for 
Bessie's  loyal  affection  for  Inez,  there  was 
mingled  another  and  a  very  different  feeling, 
excited  by  the  mention  of  one  name  in  her 
letter.  This  was  the  name  of  the  man  to 
whom  she  was  going — him  whom  she  claimed 
as  a  loved  relative — Kevin  Magrath. 

Now  to  Kane  Ruthven  this  man  had  al 
ready  appeared  in  a  twofold  and  altogether 
contradictory  character — first,  as  a  sort  of 
accusing  witness  ;  secondly,  as  a  remorseless 
villain.  Latterly  he  had  adopted  that  view 
of  the  man  which  he  had  received  from  Inez, 
whose  whole  story  he  had  heard,  and  whose 
sentiments  toward  Kevin  Magrath  he  had 
embraced.  He  now  thought  of  him  as  the 
confederate  of  the  guilty  Wyverne,  as  the  in 
stigator  of  dark  crimes,  as  the  plotter  against 
Inez.  Yet  it  was  to  this  very  man  that  Bes 
sie  was  now  going.  She  would  tell  him,  in 
her  innocence  and  her  unsuspecting  trust* 
about  Inez.  She,  out  of  her  very  love,  might 
thus  prove  the  worst  enemy  that  Inez  could 
have,  and  would,  perhaps,  be  the  means  of 
bringing  the  helpless  fugitive  once  more  un 
der  the  power  of  her  remorseless  persecutor. 
Such  thoughts  and  fears  as  these  filled 
Kane's  whole  mind,  to  the  exclusion  of  every 
thing  else.  It  was  a  new  and  most  unex 
pected  change  in  the  current  of  affairs — a 
change  for  which  he  was  altogether  unpre 
pared,  and  which  he  hardly  knew  how  to 
meet.  In  Bessie  he  believed  implicitly  as 
he  believed  in  Inez.  One  of  these  regard 
ed  Kevin  Magrath  as  her  dearest  friend, 


while  the  other  regarded  him  as  her  worst 
enemy.  Of  his  cruel  treatment  of  Inez  there 
could  be  do  doubt.  She  had  been  enticed 
.nto  his  power  by  the  most  shameful  deceit ; 
she  had  been  allured  to  what  she  supposed 
to  be  her  father's  bedside,  and  had  been  ca 
joled  with  a  story  of  his  death,  and  misled 
by  forged  letters.  After  this  she  had  been 
kept  in  strict  imprisonment.  Of  all  this 
there  was  no  doubt,  and  all  this  had  been  the 
work  of  Kevin  Magrath.  Yet  this  was  the 
man  whom  Bessie  loved,  and  under  whose 
power  she  was  about  to  bring  Inez  once 
more. 

Kane  read  this  letter  in  eilence,  and  was 
absorbed  in  such  thoughts  as  these.  Gwyn 
had  expected  a  severe  course  of  questioning, 
and  had  tried  to  prepare  hira&elf  for  it,  but, 
to  his  great  relief,  no  questions  were  asked. 
Kane  had  too  much  to  think  cf.  In  addition 
to  the  thoughts  just  narrated,  he  had  others 
of  equal  importance,  and  prominent  among 
these  was  the  question  whether  he  ought  or 
ought  not  to  tell  Gwyn  the  whole  truth  about 
Kevin  Magrath.  Thus  far,  for  reasons  al 
ready  mentioned,  he  had  not  divulged  that 
name.  But  now  circumstances  bad  changed. 
There  was  danger  ahead,  and  Gwyn  ought  to 
know  what  that  danger  was.  Perhaps  Bes 
sie,  as  well  as  Inez,  might  fall  into  the  hands 
of  this  unscrupulous  villain,  and  the  measure 
that  he  had  already  meted  to  the  one  he  might 
deal  out  to  the  other  also. 

The  question  was  a  difficult  one,  and  at 
length  Kane  decided  to  allow  things  to  re 
main  as  they  were,  and  not  to  mention  to 
Gwyn  any  thing  about  what  he  conceived  t« 
be  the  true  character  of  Kevin  Magrath  br* 
only  to  suggest,  in  a  general  way,  his  aprm-- 
hensions  of  danger. 

"I  don't  like  this,"  said  he,  at  length 
"  I  don't  like  it  at  all." 

"  Oh,"  said  Gwyn,  with  an  attempt  at  in 
difference,  "  she  was  so  awfully  fond  of  Ine? 
you  know,  she  had  to  go." 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  that,"  said  Kane,  "  and  1 
admire  her  for  such  a  generous  impulse ;  but, 
at  the  same  time,  it  would  have  been  a  great 
deal  better  if  she  had  waited.  We  ought  to 
have  gone  together.  There  is  too  much  dan 
ger-" 

«  Danger  ?  " 

"  Yes,  danger,  for  her  and  for  Inez.  You 
see,  Inez  has  powerful  enemies,  and  they  are, 
no  doubt,  on  the  lookout  for  her.  If  Bes- 


THE   TWO   FRIENDS. 


173 


sle's  movements  should  be  made  known  to 
them  —  a  very  possible  thing — they  might 
track  her,  and  get  her  into  their  power  as 
well  as  Inez.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  ene 
mies  of  one  are  the  enemies  of  the  other, 
and  that  the  danger  that  threatens  one  may 
threaten  both." 

This  suggestion  of  possible  danger  to 
Bessie  at  once  roused  a  new  feeling  in 
Gwyn's  heart.  Already  he  longed  to  fly  to 
her,  out  of  his  deep,  yearning  love  ;  but  now 
the  possibility  of  danger  formed  a  new  mo 
tive,  and  one,  too,  which  urged  instant  and 
immediate  departure. 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  he  asked, 
anxiously. 

"  I  do,"  said  Kane,  seriously. 
"  Then  we  had  better  go  at  once.     If  this 
is  so,  I  cannot  stay  here  another  hour.  I  shall 
have  to  go,  and  you  will  have  to  excuse  me, 
Kane." 

"Excuse  you,  dear  boy  ?  I'll  do  nothing 
of  the  kind,  for  I  will  go  myself.  I  only 
came  here  for  the  sake  of  Inez,  and  I  am 
anxious,  above  all  things,  for  Bessie  to  find 
her.  Since  Bessie  has  gone,  I  will  go  too." 

That  very  evening  Kane  and  Gwyn  left 
Euthven  Towers.  They  might  just  as  well 
have  remained  all  night,  for  they  gained 
nothing,  and  had  to  wait  at  Keswick ;  yet 
still  they  both  felt  less  impatience  and  more 
satisfaction  in  doing  so,  since  it  seemed  to 
them  that  they  were  at  least  on  the  way  to 
their  destination.  They  were  as  much  as 
twenty-four  hours  behind  Bessie,  but  they 
both  hoped  that  this  might  make  no  material 
difference. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THE   TWO   FRIENDS. 

BESSIE'S  accident  appeared  to  have  left 
no  evil  results  behind,  for  she  found  herself 
well  enough  on  the  following  morning  to  form 
the  resolution  of  going  to  Paris,  and  to  carry 
it  out  successfully.  On  the  morning  after 
she  reached  her  destination,  and  drove  at 
once  to  the  Hotel  Gascoigne,  where  she  re 
mained  a  few  hours.  She  then  took  a  cab  to 
the  address  of  Inez,  which  had  been  given 
her  by  Kane  Ruthven. 

She  found  the  place  without  much  diffi 
culty,  and,  telling  the  cabman  to  wait,  she  en 
tered  and  asked  for  Inez.  She  did  not  have 
12 


to  wait  long.  A  hurried  step,  a  cry  of  joy, 
and  Inez  flung  herself  into  Bessie's  arms,  and 
the  two  friends  embraced  one  another  long 
and  fervently.  In  the  first  delight  of  that 
meeting  but  little  was  said  on  either  side,  and 
it  was  a  long  time  before  either  appeared  to 
be  able  to  make  any  coherent  remark  of  any 
kind  whatever. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come,"  cried  Inez,  as 
soon  as  she  could  speak.  "  I  knew  you  would 
come  as  soon  as  you  heard.  I  knew  you 
would  come,  you  darling — you  darling !  And 
did  you  see  Kane  ?  and  did  he  tell  you  all  ? 
Oh,  I  think  my  heart  will  almost  break  with 
utter  joy ! " 

"  Sure  but  it's  the  cruel  girl  you  were  to 
me,  and  it's  the  sore  heart  I  had,"  cried  Bes 
sie,  reproachfully.  "Wasn't  I  hoping  to  hear 
from  you  day  after  day,  until  at  last  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  you'd  given  me  up  for 
good  and  all." 

"  But  I  couldn't — I  couldn't,  dear.  Didn't 
Kane  tell  you  about  me  ?  " 

"Sure  and  he  did — the  whole  story,  en 
tirely — and,  of  course,  darling,  I  was  able  to 
account  for  what  had  seemed  your  very  mys- 
terous  silence.  Oh,  my  own  poor,  dear,  dar 
ling  Inez!  how  my  heart  bled  for  yours! — 
and  I  couldn't  wait  one  single  moment  longer; 
but,  as  soon  as  I  heard  about  you,  I  left 
every  thing— yes,  every  thing— and  hurried 
here." 

At  this  proof  of  Bessie's  loyalty  and 
truth,  Inez  was  affected  to  tears.  She  could 
not  say  any  thing,  but  once  more  pressed  her 
friend  in  her  arms. 

"  But  how  did  it  happen,  Bessie  dearest," 
asked  Inez,  after  a  time,  "  that  my  letters 
never  reached  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sure  but  that's  very  easily  explained, 
Inez  darling,"  said  Bessie.  "  You  see,  I  had 
to  leave  poor  papa's  house — they  were  going 
to  sell  every  thing ;  and,  as  you  had  left  me, 
there  was  no  help  for  it  but  for  me  to  go,  too. 
So  I  went  away  to  my  own  home  in  Cumber 
land;  and,  by  the  same  token,  my  other 
guardian  came  to  take  me  away  at  that  same 
time,  having  heard,  you  know,  about  poor, 
dear  Guardy  Wyverne's  death.  So  you  know, 
Inez  dearest,  you  addressed  your  letters  to 
me  at  London,  I  suppose,  while  I  was  away  in 
Cumberland  all  the  time;  so,  of  course,  I 
never  received  them." 

This  explanation  fully  accounted  for  what 
had  seemed  like  Bessie's  neglect,  and  vindi. 


174 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


cated  her  faithful  friendship.  Bessie's  allu 
sion  to  Mr.  Wyverne  as  her  "  papa "  struck 
Inez  rather  unpleasantly,  and  she  now  thought 
that  between  her  and  Bessie  there  was  still 
that  terrible  secret  which  had  already  been 
so  disastrous  to  her.  That  secret  put  her  in 
opposition  to  Bessie  —  it  gave  her  claims 
which  were  antagonistic  to  claims  of  Bessie's ; 
and,  if  Bessie  were  to  know  of  it,  Inez  saw 
that  she  would  lose  that  sweet  friendship 
which  was  now  her  dearest  consolation.  At 
this  very  first  meeting  with  Bessie,  therefore, 
she  saw  the  necessity  of  being  on  her  guard, 
and  maintaining  as  much  reserve  as  possible 
about  the  mystery  of  Bernal  Mordaunt.  The 
great  difficulty  here,  however,  was  her  igno 
rance  as  to  how  much  Kane  may  have  told 
Bessie. 

While  she  was  trying  to  think  of  some 
way  by  which  she  might  find  this  out,  Bessie 
herself  volunteered  to  give  her  the  informa 
tion. 

"  Oh,  my  own  darling ! "  exclaimed  Bessie, 
"how  very,  very  rash  it  was  in  you,  you 
know,  so  it  was !  And  I'm  sure  I  don't  see 
why  you  couldn't  have  sent  some  agent  on  to 
this  fearful  place,  instead  of  coming  yourself. 
Your  poor,  dear  papa's  business  couldn't  have 
been  so  very,  very  pressing.  And  then  think 
of  the  suffering  you  have  caused  me." 

"I  was  very  rash,"  said  Inez,  "  very  rash 
indeed." 

"  And  you  must  never  do  so  again,"  said 
Bessie,  earnestly ;  "  now  promise." 
"  No,  never,"  said  Inez. 
"  Promise  that  you  will  never  run  off  this 
way  without  telling  me." 

"  I  do  promise,"  said  Inez.  "  I  do,  dear 
Bessie.  I  shall  not  leave  you  till  you  wish 
me  to." 

Bessie  laughed  joyously. 
"  Then  that  means  forever,  so  it  does  1 ' 
she  cried ;  "  and  sure  it's  myself  that'll  keep 
you  with  me  as  long  as  I  live,  so  I  will." 

"  Did  Kane  come  with  you  ?  "  asked  Inez 
after  a  pause. 

"No,"   said    Bessie;    "sure   I   just   ra 
away,  leaving  them  by  themselves.    And 
suppose  they'll  be  coming  in  in  hot  hast 
after  me.    They'll  both  be  here  by  to-mor 
row." 

"Both?"  repeated  Inez.  "Both  who 
Is  there  any  other  but  Kane  ?  Do  you  mea 
your  guardian ! " 

"  Well,  yes ;  that's  what  he  just  is,"  sai 


|  Bessie,  with  a  merry  smile.     "  He's  my  guar- 
'  dian." 

"Wbat's  his  name?" 
"  His  name  is  Sir  Gwyn  Ruthven.    He  is 
Kane's  brother,  you  know." 

At  this  astounding  intelligence  Inez  started 
ack,  and,  for  a  few  moments,  stared  at  Bes- 
le  in  the  deepest  astonishment.  Kane  had 
old  her  his  true  name,  but  she  was  not  aware 
aat  any  brother  of  his  was  alive ;  and,  though 
he  was  acquainted  with  Sir  Gwyn  Ruthven, 
et  she  did  not  imagine  for  a  moment  that  he 
was  Kane's  brother. 

Sure  and  I've  got  another  surprise  for 
ou,"  said  Bessie,  regarding  Inez  with  a  sly 
and  mischievous  smile. 

"  Another  surprise  ?  "  repeated  Inez.  "  This 
s  surprise  enough  for  one  day.  Oh,  how 
glad  I  am — how  glad  I  am !  Kane  is  reunited 
with  his  friends,  then  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  he  is,"  said  Bessie.  "  Sir 
Gwyn  is  Sir  Gwyn  no  longer.  It  is  Sir  Kane 
Rutbven  now,  and  Ruthven  Towers  goes  to 
him  also.  But  that  isn't  the  surprise  I  mean 
for  you.  at  all  at  all.  It's  about  myself,  so  it 
is,  Inez  darling." 

"Yourself,  Bessie?  what  is  it?"  asked 
[nez,  full  of  interest. 

"Well,  you  know,  dear,  I  said  that  Sir 
Gwyn  Ruthven,  or  Mr.  Gwyn  Ruthven,  is  my 
guardian." 

«  Yes — how  strange,  too  1  I  never  knew 
that  before." 

"  jjo — no  more  you  did.  He  hasn't  filled 
that  office  long.  It's  a  very  peculiar  sort  of 
guardianship,  too." 

"  But  isn't  he  rather  young  and  inexperi 
enced  for  so  important  and  responsible  a  posi 
tion  ?  "  asked  Inez,  in  a  solemn  tone. 
Bessie  laughed  gayly. 
"  Oh,  sure,"  said  she,  "  this  is  a  kind  of 
guardianship,  Inez  darling,  that  makes  youth 
all  the  more  appropriate.    It's  guardian  of 
me  for  life  that  he  is." 

And  Bessie  looked  with  such  a  peculiar 
smile  at  Inez,  that  the  latter  began  to  catch 
her  meaning  at  last. 

"  Why,  Bessie,"  she  exclaimed,  in  amaze 
ment,  ""you  look  as  though  you  mean 
that—" 

"  That  he's  my  husband,"  said  Bessie,  tri 
umphantly,  "  and  I'm  Mrs.  Ruthven,  so  I  am 
_a  bride  of  a  few  weeks'  standing,  that 
hasn't  ceased  to  be  a  friend  either,  so  I 
haven't ;  for  didn't  I  run  away  from  my  own 


THE   TWO  FRIENDS. 


175 


husband  to  come  to  the  help  of  my  darlin^ 
Inez  ?' " 

With  these  words  Bessie  flung  her  arm, 
around  Inez,  and  kissed  her  fondly ;  while 
Inez,  who  was  perfectly  thunderstruck  at  the 
news  of  Bessie's  marriage,  and  did  not  know 
what  to  say,  was  so  affected  by  this  additioua 
proof  of  Bessie's  love  for  her  that  she  coulc 
only  murmur  a  few  incoherent  words  of  affec 
tion  and  gratitude. 

"  You  see,  Inez  dearest,"  continued  Bes 
sie,  "  Gywn  and  I  had  an  understanding  in 
London,  though  nobody  knew  it,  and,  when  I 
went  home,  he  came  after  me,  and  he  was  so 
urgent,  and  I  was  so  lonely,  and  he  loved  me 
so,  that— that,  in  fact,  I  hadn't  one  single 
reason  for  refusing  him,  and  a  great  many  for 
accepting  him,  and  there  you  have  it.  But 
oh,  it's  the  loving  heart  and  the  noble  nature 
he  has,  so  it  is,  and  you  know  you  always 
liked  him  yourself— now  didn't  you,  Inez  dar 
ling?" 

"  It's  enough  for  me,"  said  Inez,  "  that  he 
is  Kane's  brother.  I  consider  Kane  one  of 
the  most  noble-hearted  men  I  ever  saw." 

"  True  for  you,"  said  Bessie,  "  and,  as  for 
Gwyn,  why,  sure  it's  enough  to  say  that  he's 
Kane's  own  brother.  And  oh,  but  it  was  tho 
beautiful  sight  to  see  the  meeting  between 
the  two  of  them.  They  went  on  to  make 
idols  of  one  another,  so  they  did.  I  didn't 
like  to  interfere  with  their  enjoyment,  and  I 
was  crazy  to  see  you,  and  so  I  thought  I'd 
satisfy  myself,  and  you,  and  Gwyn,  and  Kane, 
and  everybody,  by  slipping  away,  and  leaving 
them  to  come  after  me.  And  they'll  be  com 
ing  along  at  once,  and'll  be  here  to-morrow, 
no  doubt." 

It  was  with  very  diversified  feelings  that 
Inez  listened  to  Bessie  as  she  communicated 
this  information.  She  felt  sincere  and  un 
feigned  joy  that  her  true  friend  had  won  a 
man  whom  she  loved,  and  a  man,  too,  who 
was  so  worthy  of  her;  but  yet  it  jarred 
somewhat  upon  her  to  hear  Bessie  speak  of 
Kane  in  this  way,  and  to  think  that  Kane  was 
her  brother-in-law.  It  had  come  to  this,  now 
that  Kane  was  brother-in-law  to  each  of  them. 
Now,  there  was  nothing  in  this  fact  itself  for 
Inez  to  object  to,  but  the  thing  that  excited  a 
sense  of  unpleasantness,  or  uneasiness,  was 
the  additional  closeness  with  which  Bessie's 
fortunes  were  interweaving  themselves  with 
her  own.  Already  there  was  the  mystery  of 
Bessie's  name  and  claim,  conflicting  so  utterly 


with  her  own.     This  of  itself  brought  about 
between  them  a  conflict  of  interests,  about 
which  Inez  did  not  like  to  think ;  but  now  this 
new  relationship  to  Kane  promised  to  brin°- 
forward  new  antagonisms,  and  seemed  to  be 
token  evil  in  the  future.     There  were  a  thou 
sand  things  which  she  wished  to  ask  Bessie, 
but  dared  not  touch  upon.     Bessie  still  re 
garded  her  as  Inez  Wyverne ;  Bessie  regarded 
herself  as  the  daughter  of  Bernal  Mordaunt ; 
she  must  also  regard  Kane  Ruthven  as  the 
man  who  married  Clara  Mordaunt,  whom  she 
believed  to  be  her  own  elder  sister.      All 
these  things  constituted  elements  of  disturb 
ance,  and  made  Inez  watchful  and  cautious  in 
her  words.     Upon  these  subjects  it  would  not 
do  to  venture.     To  do  so  would  be   to  en 
danger  this  sweet  friendship  which  had  come 
like  a  gleam  of  sunshine  into  the  darkness 
of  her  life.     She  did  not  even  venture  to  ask 
after  Bernal   Mordaunt,    for   fear   lest    this 
might   bring  forward   the   dreaded   subject. 
But  her  desire   to   enjoy  Bessie's  love  was 
stronger  than   her  curiosity  about  her  own 
circumstances,  or  even  than  her  filial  anxiety 
about  Bernal  Mordaunt ;  and,  therefore,  she 
willingly  put   away   for   the   present    every  . 
bought  about  these  forbidden  matters. 

As  for  Bessie,  she  was  perfectly  uncmbar- 
assed,  and  showed  all  that  warm-hearted  and 
emonstrative  affection,  all  that  frank  cor- 
lality  and  playful  drollery  which  constituted 
o  great  a  charm  in  her  manner.     She  made 
no  allusion  whatever  to  the  return  of  Bernal 
Mordaunt,  to  his  fondness  for  Gwyn,  and  to 
his  death.     Whether  this  arose  from  any  sus 
picion  of  the  belief  that  Inez  had  in  her  re 
lation  to  him,  and  from   a  desire  to   avoid 
what  would  necessarily  be  a  painful  subject; 
or,  on  the  other  hand,  whether  she  avoided 
this  subject  simply  from  an  unwillingness  to 
touch  upon  a  matter  which  wus  so  sad  to 
herself,  did  not  appear. 

After  a  prolonged  conversation,  Bessie  at 
length  proposed  that  Inez  should  go  with  her 
at  once.  Inez  was  not  at  all  unwilling ;  and, 
as  her  luggage  was  slender,  indeed,  no' great 
time  was  taken  up  in  making  preparations. 
But  Inez  could  not  leave  without  acquainting 
the  kind  landlady  and  her  family  with  her 
good  fortune,  and  bidding  them  good-by.  The 
good  people  rejoiced  with  unfeigned  joy,  and 
exhibited  a  delight  at  the  changed  fortunes 
of  Inez  which  was  extremely  touching; 
while,  by  the  admiring  glances  which  they 


176 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


turned  upon  Bessie,  they  evidently  thought 
that  the  lovely  English  girl  \vas  being  re 
stored  to  friends  who  were  worthy  of  her. 
After  an  affectionate  farewell,  and  amid  fer 
vent  good  wishes  for  her  future  happiness, 
Inez  took  her  departure,  and  drove  off  with 
Bessie  to  the  Hotel  Gascoigne. 

Here  Inez  was  delighted  to  find  that  the 
loving  forethought  of  Bessie  had  caused  all 
necessary  preparations  to  be  made  for  her 
comfort.  There  was  a  suite  of  rooms  for  the 
two  friends,  and  Inez  had  a  room  to  herself, 
with  a  dressing-room  adjoining.  In  addition 
to  this,  Bessie  had  contrived  to  bring  on  lug 
gage  enough  to  supply  all  the  wants  of  Inez 
in  the  way  of  apparel.  In  fact,  there  was 
nothing  wanting  of  all  that  careful  fore 
thought  and  considerate  affection  could  sug 
gest.  Here  Inez,  for  the  first  time  in  many 
weeks,  felt  that  perfect  peace  and  comfort 
which  arises  from  the  sense  of  safety,  and 
protection,  and  the  neighborhood  of  loving 
friends.  All  this  was  given  to  her  by  these 
surroundings,  and  by  Bessie's  presence. 

Yet  out  of  this  sweet  security  and  perfect 
peace  Inez  had  a  sudden  and  most  unpleasant 
start,  which  occurred  just  at  the  beginning 
of  this  new  enjoyment,  and  for  a  time  seemed 
to  her  to  threaten  the  ruin  of  every  hope.  It 
was  caused  by  a  casual  remark  of  Bessie's, 
made  in  all  innocence,  and  in  perfect  uncon 
sciousness  of  the  effect  which  it  was  to  pro 
duce. 

"  And  now,  Inez  darling,"  said  she,  after 
the  close  of  a  prolonged  conversation  about 
Kane  and  Gwyn — "  and  now  I  have  one  of 
my  very  dearest  friends  here,  and,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  him,  I  couldn't  have  come  on 
so  quick,  darling — it's  me  dear  mamma's 
papa — and  you  must  see  him  this  day.  You'll 
love  him  as  I  do,  I  know." 

Bessie  suddenly  stopped,  astonished  at 
the  change  which  came  over  Inez.  For,  no 
sooner  had  Inez  heard  these  words,  and  this 
allusion  to  Bessie's  "mamma's  papa,"  than 
she  turned  as  pale  as  death,  and  started  to 
her  feet  with  an  expression  of  deadly 
fear. 

"  What's  all  this  ?  "  cried  Bessie ;  "  what's 
the  matter,  Inez  ?  Inez  darling ! " 

"  Is  that  man — here  ?  "  gasped  Inez. 

"  That  man !     What  man  ?  "  cried  Bessie. 

"  Kevin  Magrath,"  said  Inez,  in  a  scarce 
audible  voice. 

"Kevin  Magrath,"   said  Bessie;    "why, 


that's  my  mamma's  papa.     Why,  wasn't  I 
saying  that  he  is  here,  but — " 

"  I'll  go  away,"  said  Inez,  with  a  terrified 
look.  "  Let  me  go,  Bessie  dearest.  Let  me 
go!" 

"  What !  Is  it  mad  ye  are  ?  "  cried  Bes 
sie,  clinging  to  Inez.  "What  in  the  wide 
world  has  come  over  ye  then  ?  Sure,  I  don't 
understand  this,  at  all,  at  all!  Is  it  my 
grandpa  that  you're  afraid  of?  Sure,  and  it 
looks  like  it,  so  it  does ! " 

"  I'll  go.  I  will  not  stay.  Bessie,  if  you 
love  me,  don't  stop  me.  Bessie,  dearest  Bes 
sie,  let  me  go.  0  Bessie!  that  man,  that 
man— Kevin  Magrath — he  is  the  one  that  has 
caused  all  my  sufferings.  Bessie,  darling 
friend,  let  me  go.  If  he  gets  me  in  his  power 
again,  I  shall  die." 

And  Inez  tore  herself  away,  and  hurried 
to  her  room,  where  she  began  to  put  on  her 
hat.  Bessie  hastened  after  her. 

"Inez!"  she  cried,  vehemently.  "Inez, 
darling  Inez,  will  ye  trust  me  then?  Am  I 
nothing  to  you?  Is  it  nothing  for  me  to  have 
done  what  I  did,  and  quit  my  own  husband 
to  see  you  ?  Will  you  run  away  from  me  for 
a  wild,  fantastic  freak  ?  Is  it  mad  ye  are, 
then  ?  Oh,  my  poor,  darling  Inez !  how  very, 
very  cruel  this  is  of  you ! " 

"0  Bessie!"  said  Inez,  mournfully,  "you 
do  not  know  what  I  have  suffered,  and  that 
man  is  the  cause,  Bessie.  Let  me  go  now, 
dear,  or — " 

"  No,"  said  Bessie,  firmly,  coming  up  and 
taking  Inez  in  her  arms.  "  No,  dear,  I  will 
not  let  you  go — never— or,  if  you  do  go,  I 
will  go  with  you.  I  will  not  leave  you.  I 
have  found  you,  and  I  will  follow  you.  But, 
listen  to  reason  for  a  moment,  will  you? 
Inez  darling,  there's  some  mystery  about  you 
that  I  don't  understand  at  all,  at  all— and 
Kane  didn't  explain  much  after  all — perhaps 
because  he  didn't  understand  any  more'n  I 
do— and  for  my  part  I  don't  want  to  think  of 
it  at  all,  for  it  makes  my  poor  little  head  ache 

and  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it,  for  it's 

painful,  so  it  is,  both  to  me  and  to  you. 
Don't  I  know  it?  Am  I  an  owl?  Not  me, 
Inez  darling.  Let's  bury  it  all  out  of  sight. 
Let's  forget  all  about  it,  dear,  and  be  our  own 
selves  again,  such  as  we  used  to  be  before 
your  poor,  dear  papa  died.  But,  as  to  my 
mamma's  papa,  if  it's  him  you're  afraid  of,  I 
tell  you  it's  all  a  mistake  you're  under.  It 
must  be,  so  it  must.  He  harm  you !  He  im- 


A   REYELATIOX. 


177 


prison  you !  Why,  it's  mad  you  are  to  think 
of  such  a  thing.  There  never  breathed  a  no 
bier,  truer,  more  tender-hearted  man  than 
that  same  Kevin  Magrath.  Don't  I  know 
him?  Me  own  grandpa,  too,  the  darling 
Sure  I  do.  It's  all  a  mistake,  whatever  it  is 
— a  mistake,  Inez  darling,  no  matter  what  it 
is — and  there  you  have  it." 

Bessie's  vehemence  impressed  Inez  in 
spite  of  herself,  and  she  found  her  terrors 
fading  away  in  the  presence  of  such  asser 
tions  as  these.  She  could  not  help  thinking 
that  the  man  whom  Bessie  so  loved,  and  in 
whom  she  so  thoroughly  believed,  could  not 
be  altogether  the  villain  that  she  had  sup- 
posed  him  to  be. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  him,  Inez  darling  ? 
continued  Bessie.     "  Tell  me,  have  you  ever 
seen  him  then,  or  have  you  ever  spoken  with 
him  ?  " 

"  Never,"  said  Inez,  hesitatingly. 
It  was  a  fact.     She  had  never  actually 
seen  him. 

"  Sure,  then,  it's  a  mad  fancy  of  yours,  so 
it  is.  "Won't  you  believe  me  when  I  tell  you 
that  he's  one  of  the  best  and  noblest  of  men, 
and,  if  you  were  only  to  sec  him  and  know 
him,  you:d  feel  toward  him  as  I  do,  so  you 
would  ?  Sure,  how  do  I  know,  Inez  darling, 
what  wild  fancy  you've  got  into  your  head  ? 
but  it  is  a  wild,  mad  fancy;  of  that  I'm  sure, 
so  I  am.  So  come,  sit  down  again.  Sure, 
you  haven't  any  cause  to  fear  while  you're 
with  me,  and  where  in  the  wide  world  can  you 
go  to?  " 

This  was  a  question  which  Inez  could  not 
answer.  "Where,  indeed,  could  she  go  now  ? 
To  find  Bessie  had  for  a  long  time  been  the 
chief  desire  of  her  heart.  How  could  she 
now  fly  from  her  ? 

Besides,  here  was  Bessie  urging  her  most 
vehemently  to  dismiss  those  suspicions  which 
she  had  been  entertaining  about  Kevin  Ma 
grath.  Bessie  trusted  in  him.  Bessie  loved 
him.  Might  not  Bessie's  trust  and  love  be 
justifiable?  After  all,  she  had  never  seen 
him.  She  had  judged  from  circumstantial 
evidence.  Might  not  all  this  be  explained 
away  ?  Was  she  so  sure  that  she  was  right, 
that  she  could  put  her  opinion  against  that 
of  Bessie  ? 

But  more  than  this — here  was  Bessie,  and 
what  harm  could  now  befall  her  ?  Could  she 
dread  imprisonment  now — with  Bessie  ?  That 
would  be  absurd.  Besides,  in  the  space  of 


one  more  day,  Kane  would  be  here,  and  with 
him  his  brother  Gwyn,  who  was  also  Bessie's 
husband.  There  would  then  be  three  upon 
whom  she  could  rely.  Even  if  Kevin  Magrath 
should  be  all  that  she  had  believed  him  to  be, 
what  could  he  do  when  she  had  the  support 
of  Bessie  and  her  husband  and  Kane? 

Finally,  in  spite  of  all  that  Inez  had  suf 
fered,  she  found  herself  in  a  strange  state  of 
doubt  as  to  the  truth  of  her  own  belief  about 
Kevin  Magrath.  Here  was  Bessie  who  as 
sured  her  that  this  belief  was  false.  Kane 
also,  who  had  just  been  with  Bessie,  and  had 
talked  with  her  about  these  matters,  might 
possibly  have  learned  enough  about  him  to 
change  the  opinion  that  he  had  formed  ;  and, 
indeed,  it  seemed  as  though  it  must  be  so, 
since  Bessie  had  left  her  husband,  and  Kane 
also,  with  the  express  purpose  of  going  on  to 
join  Kevin  Magrath,  and  find  herself.  Kevin 
Magrath,  then,  seemed  to  Inez  to  lose  his  ter 
rors,  since  Kane  had  allowed  Bessie  to  go 
forward  on  this  errand. 

She  therefore  allowed  herself  to  be  per- 
snaded  and  soothed  and  quieted  by  Bessie's 
words,  and,  at  length,  not  only  gave  up  all 
thoughts  of  flight,  but  allowed  herself  to  con 
sent  to  an  interview  with  this  once-dreaded 
Kevin  Magrath  that  very  evening. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

A   REVELATION. 

THE  apprehension  with  which  Inez  looked 
forward  to  a  meeting  with  Kevin  Magrath 
did  not  last  over  the  first  few  moments  of 
hat  interview.  He  was  dressed  in  black, 
rather  after  the  fashion  in  vogue  among  Eng- 
ish  priests,  than  among  those  on  the  Con 
tinent.  As  he  looked  at  Inez,  there  was  on 
lis  face  something  so  mild  and  paternal  that 
ler  fears  departed,  and  she  began  to  think 
hat  she  had  been  mistaken  in  him  all  along. 
le  addressed  to  her  a  few  affectionate  words, 
mingled  with  playful  allusions  to  Bessie's 
running  away  from  her  husband  for  her  sake, 
and  then  proceeded  to  express  the  deepest 
sympathy  for  her,  and  the  strongest  con 
demnation  of  Gounod.  He  declared  that  it 
was  all  a  most  lamentable  mistake,  arising 
>om  the  miserable  stupidity  of  "that  old 
bol,  Gounod."  He  had  directed  him  merely 
o  take  the  greatest  possible  care  of  her, 


178 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


which  direction  he  had  understood,  or  mis 
understood,  so  as  to  conceive  his  duties^to 
be  those  of  a  jailer.  He  alluded,  in  touching 
language,  to  his  own  deep  grief  when  he 
learned  that  she  had  gone,  and  to  his  fear 
even  to  search  after  her,  lest  she  might  sup 
pose  that  she  was  pursued. 

After  these  preliminaries,  he  went  on  to 
say  that  the  time  had  now  come,  which  he 
had  so  long  wished  to  see,  when  he  could 
explain  every  thing  to  her,  and  to  Bessie 

also. 

"I  mean  both  of  you,"  said  he,  "for 
you're  both  involved  in  this,  and  oh,  but  it's 
the  shupreme  momint  of  my  life,  so  it  is. 
Gyerruls— Inez  Mordaunt,  Bessie  Mordaunt— 
listen  to  me.  Ye  both  love  one  another  like 
sisters,  so  ye  do.  Inez  darlin',  haven't  ye 
ever  suspected  what's  mint  by  Bessie's 
name  ?  Bessie  jool,  don't  ye  suspect  some- 
thin'  when  ye  hear  me  callin'  her  Inez  Mor 
daunt  ?  " 

And  with  these  words  Kevin  Magrath 
looked  first  at  one  and  then  at  the  other 
with  a  beaming  smile  of  joyous  expectation. 

At  such  a  singular  address  as  this  both 
Inez  and  Bessie  looked  puzzled.  Inez  looked 
at  the  speaker  with  earnest,  solemn  scrutiny; 
while  Bessie  looked  first  at  Inez  and  then  at 
him,  and  then  back  again  at  Inez. 

"  Ye  love  one  another  like  sisters,"  con 
tinued  Kevin  Magrath  — "ye  love  one  an 
other  like  sisters,  and  why  ?  Why  is  it  ? 
Why?  Have  ye  niver  suspected?  Listen, 
then,  I'll  tell  ye's  both  why  it  is.— It's  be 
cause  ye  are  sisters  ! " 

"  Sisters  ! "  exclaimed  Inez,  in  utter  bewil 
derment.  "  Sisters !  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 
And  she  turned  and  looked  inquiringly  at 
Bessie,  who  took  her  hand  in  one  of  hers, 
and,  twining  her  other  lovingly  around  her 
shoulder,  looked  eagerly  at  Kevin  Magrath, 
and  said : 

"  Sure  an'  it  must  be  one  of  your  jokes 
grandpa  darling,  so  it  must.  Inez  Mordaunt 
is  it,  and  sisters,  is  it  ?  How  very,  very  fun 
ny,  and  sure  it's  me  that  don't  understand  i 
at  all  at  all— now  do  you,  Inez  darling?" 

"  Be  the  powers  !  but  it  would  be  strange 
if  ye  did  until  I've  explained  myself  some 
what.  You,  Bessie  jool,  have  always  know 
that  yer  father  was  Bernal  Mordaunt ;  an 
you,  Inez,  only  knowed  it  after  the  rivilatio 
of  the  late  Henniger  Wyverne— peace  be  t 
his  sowl!" 


At  this  Bessie  clasped  Inez  closer  in  her 
arms,  and  murmured : 

"0  Inez!  darling,  darling  Inez,  is  this 
really  so?" 

"I'll  explain  it  all,"  continued  Kevin  Ma 
grath,  while  Inez  said  not  a  word,  but  stood 
motionless  from  astonishment,  with  all  her 
gaze  fastened  upon  his  face,  as  though  to 
read  there  the  truth  or  the  falsity  of  these 
astounding  statements. 

" Bernal  Mordaunt,  thin,  the  father  of 
both  of  ye's,  had  two  daughters— one  named 
Clara,  now  in  glory,  the  other  named  Inez, 
now  in  this  room.  Now,  whin  this  Inez 
was  a  little  over  two  years  old,  Mrs.  Mor 
daunt  had  a  third  daughter,  who  is  this  very 
Bessie,  now  likewise  in  this  room." 

"And  is  Inez  really  my  sister,  then?" 
;ried  Bessie,  with  irrepressible  enthusiasm, 
and  older  than  me,  and  me  always  loved 

er  go  i 0  Inez !  dear,  sweet  sister  I  0  Inez ! 

ure  but  it's  heart-broke  with  joy  I  fairly  am, 
nd  there  you  have  it ! " 

With  these  words  Bessie  pressed  Inez 
gain  and  again  in  her  arms ;  and  Inez,  who 
ras  still  puzzled  by  various  thoughts,  which 
till  stood  in  the  way  of  her  full  reception  of 
his  announcement,  was  nevertheless  so  over 
whelmed  by  Bessie's  love  that  she  yielded  to 
t  utterly,  and,  returning  her  embraces  and 
kisses,  burst  into  tears,  and  wept  in  her 


inns. 

"Ye're    not    the   same  age,  thin,"   said 
Kevin  Magrath,  "  for  you,  Inez,  are  one  year 
older  than  ye've  been  believing;  and  you, 
Bessie,   are    one    year    younger.      Sure  an* 
there's  been  oninding  schayming  about  ye's, 
and  ye've  been  the  jupes  of  it.     But  I'm  not 
going  now  to  purshue  that  same  into  all  its 
multichudinous  rameefeecations.      I'm   only 
intinding  to  mintion  a  few  plain  facts.    Well, 
thin,  your  poor  mother,  Bessie,  died  in  giving 
birth 'to  you.     With  that  death  died  out  all 
the  happiness  of  Bernal  Mordaunt.      Sorry 
am  I  to  say,  also,  that  you,  the  innocent 
child,  were  regarded  by  the  widowed  husband 
with  coldness,  if  not  aversion,  for  that  you 
were  the  cause,  innocent  though  you  were, 
of  the  death  of  his  wife,  whom  he  adored. 
His  other  children  he  had  always  loved,  but 
you  he  niver  mintioned,  nor  would  he  hear 
about  you  after  the  death  of  his  wife.     So 
Bessie,  poor  child,  you  were  at  the  very  out 
set  of  life  worse  thin  orphined." 

"I'm   sure  it— it  wasn't  my   fault;  and 


A  REVELATION. 


179 


I'm  sure  I — I  think  it  was  a  great  shame  s 
it  was,"  said  Bessie,  sobbing  as  she  spoke 
and,  drawing  herself  away  from  Inez,  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Well,  thin,  Bernal  Mordaunt,  weary  of 
the  wurruld  as  he  was,  determined  to  quit  it 
and  spind  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  the  ser 
vices  of  religion.  So  he  wint  away  and  in 
tered  the  Church,  and  became  a  priest.  Be 
fore  taking  this  step  he  committed  his  chil 
dren  to  the  gyarjianship  of  Hennigar  Wy- 
verne,  whose  wife  was  the  dear  friend  and 
rilative  of  the  deceased  Mrs.  Mordaunt.  Now, 
here  was  the  injustice  which  he  did,  poor 
man.  His  children,  in  his  eyes,  were  only 
Clara  and  Inez ;  the  young  infant  he  would 
not  acknowledge;  he  virtually  disouned  his 
own  child  by  neglicting  it,  by  ignoring  it. 
Here  it  was  when  I  interposed.  I  remon 
strated  with  him,  but  he  listened  with  cold 
impatience.  '  Do  as  you  please  with  her, 
Kevin,'  says  he  to  me,  'but  don't  talk  about 
her  to  me  ;  but  for  her  my  wife  would  never 
have  died.'  Those  were  his  own  words,  so 
they  were.  Cruel  they  were,  and  bitter,  and 
most  unjust,  but  he  couldn't  be  moved  from 
them,  and  he  wint  away  to  the  far  East,  to 
spind  the  remainder  of  his  life  as  a  mission 
ary  priest. 

"  I  was  saying  that  I  interposed  here. 
Alreddy  this  neglicted  child  had  been  kept 
by  a  nurse,  and  was  now  nearly  a  year  old. 
I  came  with  me  sister,  and  I  took  the  poor 
disouned  child,  and  I  had  her  well  brought 
up,  and  I  have  sustained  meself  for  years 
with  the  hope  that  Bernal  Mordaunt  might 
yet  return  to  receive  his  injured  daughter 
from  rny  hands." 

"0  darling  grandpa — then  you  are  not 
my  real  grandpa,  after  all?  "  said  Bessie,  draw 
ing  nearer  to  Kevin  Magrath,  and  taking  his 
hands  fondly  in  hers;  "but,  at  any  rate,  I 
owe  you,  and  you  only,  a  daughter's  love  and 
duty,  so  I  do." 

"  Sure  to  glory,  thin,  Bessie,  don't  I  know 
it,  and  isn't  it  me  that's  always  loved  ye  as  a 
father,  so  it  was  ?  " 

"And  sure,  then,"  said  Bessie,  holding 
Kevin  Magrath's  hand  in  one  of  hers,  and 
reaching  out  the  other  to  take  that  of  Inez; 
"  you,  Inez  darling,  won't  disown  your  sister, 
even  if  my  cruel  father  did  so  turn  away,  will 
you,  darling?" 

Inez  pressed  her  hand  warmly.  Bessie's 
sad  fate  touched  her  heart  keenly,  and  this 


new-found  sister  came  to  her  surrounded  with 
a  new  and  pathetic  interest — that  sister,  cast 
out  so  long  since,  and  now  so  strangely  re 
stored. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Kevin  Magrath,  "  sure 
it's  best  to  let  by-gones  be  by-gones.     As  I 
was   saying,  thin,  Bessie  was  taken  by  me, 
and  Clara  and  Inez  were  handed  over  to  Ilen- 
nigar  Wyverne,  who  was  to  be  their  gyarjian. 
In  a  short  time  a  difficulty  arose.     Ilennigar 
Wyverne  sent   away   Clara   to   a   school  in 
France,  and  changed  the  name  of  Inez  Mor 
daunt  to  Inez  Wyverne.     The  fact  is,  he  had 
a  scheme  of  getting  possession  of  the  Mor 
daunt  property.     His   wife  discovered  this, 
and  remonstrated.     They  quarrelled  bitterly, 
and  the  end  of  it  was  that  Mrs.  Wyverne  left 
her  husband.     Sure  it  was  a  hard  position  for 
an  honest  woman  to  be  put  in,  but  she  couldn't 
stand  by  and  see  this  thing  done  under  her 
very  nose,  so  she  left  her  husband ;  and,  for 
my  part,  I  honor  her  for  doing  so,  so  I  do.    It 
was  from  her  that  I  heard  of  Ilennigar  Wy- 
verne's  baseness,  and  I  wint  and  remonstrated 
with  him,  and  tried  all  I  could  to  bring  him 
back  to  the  path  of  juty.    I  couldn't  do  much 
with  him.     I  couldn't  find  out  where  he  had 
sint  Clara;  and,  whin  he  found  that  I  was 
growing  troublesome,  he  sint  you  away,  too, 
Inez   darling.      Well,  years   passed,   and   at 
length  I  heard  from  him  that  Clara  was  dead. 
[  heard  that  she  bad  married,  in  Paris,  some 
adventurer,  and  was  dead  and  buried.     Well, 
not  long  after  that,  you  were  brought  home 
by  him,  and  were  known  as  Inez  Wyverne.    I 
now  determined  to  bring  things  to  a  close.     I 
lad  heard  that  poor  Bernal  Mordaunt   vras 
dead,  and  I  was  determined  that  whin  you 
same  of  age,  Inez,  you  should  have  your  name 
ind  your  rights.     In  order  to  do  this,  I  had 
o  go  and  talk  plainly  to  him.     I  found  that 
le  had  forgotten  about  Bessie,  and  he  saw 
hat  all  his  fine  schemes  were  broken  up,  and 
hat  I  had  him  in  my  power.     lie  had  squan- 
lered  so  much  of  the  Mordaunt  property  that 
le  could  never  repay.     He  also  had  suffered 
much  in  his  conscience,  for  he  had  one,  the 
oor  creature,  and  was  a  broken-down  man. 
He   at   length  promised    to  do  all   that  was 
right,  but  begged  me  to  give  him  time.     He 
had  come  to  love  you,  Inez  dear ;  and  he  felt 
a  deep  repugnance  to  develop  his  crimes  to 
you ;  he  couldn't  enjure  the  thought  of  con- 
fessing  to  you  the  wrongs  he  had  done.   Well, 
I  pitied  him,  for  we  were  old  frinds — and,  for 


180 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


that  matter,  Bernal  Mordaunt  was  also — and, 
in  spite  of  his  roguery,  I  couldn't  help  feeling 
sorry  for  him.  So  I  gave  him  time,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  declared  that  I  would  hold  him 
to  his  word.  Well,  thin  it  was  that  I  sint  Bes 
sie  to  live  with  him,  or  rather  with  you,  Inez 
darling,  for  I  wanted  the  two  of  ye's  to  love 
one  another  like  sisters,  and  I  couldn't  wait 
for  Wyverne  to  make  his  confession.  *  They'll 
love  one  another  at  first  sight,'  I  thought,  *  and 
whin  they  find  out  the  blessed  truth,  they'll 
love  one  another  all  the  better,  so  they  will ; ' 
and  that's  what  I  see  fulfilled  this  day,  and 
sure  to  glory,  but  it's  mesilf  that's  the  happy 
man  for  being  spared  to  see  it." 

And  Kevin  Magrath  regarded  them  both 
for  a  few  moments  with  a  radiant  face,  and  a 
benevolent,  paternal  smile. 

"At  lingth,"  he  continued,  "poor  Wy 
verne's  health  grew  steadily  worse.    It  was 
remorse  that  was   killing   him,   so  it  was, 
neither  more  nor  less ;  and  the  dread  of  hav 
ing  to  tell  the  truth  to  you,  Inez  darling.     So 
he  wint  once  to  the  Continint,  and  ye  both 
wint  with  him,  and  ye  finally  brought  up  at 
Villeneuve.     All  this  time  we  corresponded, 
and  I  was  able  to  follow  his  track,  either  for 
tunately   or    unfortunately,   I    hardly   know 
which.     Now,  ye  know,  Rome  was,  as  a  gin- 
eral  thing,  the  place  that  was  more  like  home 
to  me  thin  any  other,  especially  since  I  had 
turruned  over  Bessie  to  poor  Wyverne,  or 
rather  to  you,  Inez  darling.     Well,  one  day  I 
was  overwhellumned  at  hearing  that  Bernal 
Mordaunt  had  returruned  from  the  East.     I 
rushed  to  greet  him,  and  for  a  time,  in  the 
joy  I  felt  at  meeting  my  old  frind,  I  forgot  all 
about  the  villany  of  another  old  frind.     At 
lingth,  when  he  infarrumed  me  that  he  was 
going  to  London  as  soon  as  possible,  I  be 
came    filled    with    anxiety.      Circumstances 
were  not  in  a  proper  position.     Such  an  ar 
rival  would  have  forced  on  a  sudden  disclos 
ure,  and  I  knew  that  in  Wyverne's  weak  state 
the  excitement  and  shame  would   kill   him. 
So  I  did  the  best  I  could.     I  wrote  to  him 
that  Bernal  Mordaunt  had  come,  and  advised 
him  to  fly  for  his  life,  or  even  to  get  up  a  pre 
tended  death.    I  towld  him  to  get  rid  of  the 
gyerruls,  particularly  Inez — that's  you,  dar 
ling — for  I  thought  I'd  give  him  a  chance  to 
escape,  and  thin  come  after  ye,  and  tell  ye 
both  the  whole  story.     I  made  a  few  further 
remarks,  blaming  him  for  entangling  himsilf 
with  a  young  doctor— a  good  enough  young 


ellow,  but  a  great  check  on  his  movements— 
and  thin  I  mailed  the  letter,  and  tried  to  hope 
for  the  best.  I  felt  afraid,  though,  in  spite 
of  all ;  and  whin,  a  few  days  afterward,  Ber 
nal  Mordaunt  left,  I  wint  as  far  as  Milan  with 
him,  and  bade  him  good-by  with  my  heart 
full  of  a  chumult  of  continding  emotions. 

"  Howandiver,  there  was  nothing  more  for 
me  to  do,  so  I  wint  to  Churin,  and  thin  via 
Genoa  and  Marseilles  to  Paris.  I  hadn't  been 
there  long  before  I  learrened  the  worst.  I 
learrened  this  from  the  lips  of  Bernal  Mor 
daunt,  who  had  come  to  Paris  straight  from 
Villeneuve,  and  was  intinding  to  go  to  Eng. 
land  as  soon  as  possible.  Some  ecclesiastical 
juties,  however,  compelled  him  to  remain  for 
a  time  in  Paris.  He  it  was  who  infarrumed 
me  about  the  occurrinces  at  Villeneuve;  and 
he  towld  me  a  thrilling  story  about  being  sint 
for  to  go  to  a  dying  man,  and  finding  this  dy 
ing  man  to  be  Eennigar  Wyverne.  I  had 
alriddy  felt  it  my  juty,  as  an  old  frind,  to  in- 
farrum  Bernal  Mordaunt  to  some  ixtint  about 
Wyverne's  defalcations,  telling  him  at  the 
same  time  about  his  remorse  and  determina 
tion  to  make  amends.  I  did  not  tell  him 
where  he  was,  though,  and  tried  to  dissuade 
him  from  crossing  the  Alps  by  the  Simplon 
road.  But  he  wanted  to  go  that  way  to  see 
some  people  at  Geneva,  and  I  couldn't  prevint 
him.  He  had  no  idea  that  you  gyerruls  were 
there,  as  I  had  refrained  from  telling  him,  for 
reasons  which  you  understand.  Wyverne  was 
almost  gone,  and  but  a  few  words  passed  be 
tween  thim.  But  yer  father  told  me  that  he 
forgave  him  ivery  thing,  and  told  him  so  to 
his  face." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  any  words  passed 
between  them,"  said  Inez,  mournfully,  re 
membering  Blake's  account  of  this  scene. 

"  'Deed  and  there  did,  just  as  I'm  telling 
ye.  Who  towld  you  that  no  words  passed  ?  " 

«  The — the  doctor  " — said  Inez. 

"Dr.  Blake,  is  it?  Well,  there's  some 
misunderstanding.  He  couldn't  have  known, 
or  he  couldn't  have  meant  it.  I  had  it  from 
Bernal  Mordaunt  himself;  and,  of  course, 
there  couldn't  have  been  any  mistake.  And, 
besides,  I'm  sure  ye  must  have  misunderstood 
him,  for  we've  talked  of  that  same  several 
times  since— over  and  over,  so  we  have." 

Inez  was  struck  by  this  allusion  to  Dr. 
Blake,  and  could  not  help  trying  to  find  out 
more  about  him. 

"  I  dare  say,"  said  she,  "  that  there  may 


A  REVELATION. 


181 


have  been  some  misunderstanding  on  my  part, 
but  I  certainly  have  a  distinct  remembrance 
of  the  meaning  that  I1  gathered  from  his 
words,  and  that  was,  that  Mr.  Wyverne  died 
without  exchanging  a  word  with  him." 
Kevin  Magrath  smiled  blandly. 
"  Quite  the  contrary,"  said  he,  mournfully ; 
"it's  as  I  have  said,  and  Blake  has  miationed 
it  to  me  over  and  over.   Do  you  see,  luez  dar 
ling,  it  must  be  as  I  have  said." 

"I  suppose  it  must,"  said  Inez,  "but  it 
is  very  singular.     Is  it  long  since  you  have 
seen  the  doctor?" 
"Not  very  long." 

"Is  he  here  yet?"  she  asked,  making  a 
further  effort  to  learn  something  about 
him. 

"  Oh,  no — he  left  here  some  time  ago." 
"  Ah  !  "  said  Inez.  She  did  not  like  to  ex 
hibit  too  much  curiosity,  especially  before 
Bessie,  and  at  such  a  time  as  this,  when  the 
tremendous  mysteries  that  had  surrounded 
their  past  lives  were  being  slowly  unfolded. 
Bessie,  however,  did  not  appear  to  take  the 
smallest  interest  in  this.  She  was  looking 
pensively  at  the  floor,  with  a  grave  expres 
sion  that  was  very  unusual  with  her. 

"  He  left  here  some  time  ago,"  said  Kevin 
Magrath,  pursuing  the  subject  which  Inez  had 
started.  "He  was  a  fine  young  fellow,  full 
of  life  and  energy,  and  I  don't  wonder  that 
poor  Wyverne  took  a  fancy  to  him  ;  though  I 
thought  at  the  time  that,  under  the  circum 
stances,  he  was  embarrassing  his  movements. 
The  flight  that  I  intimeeted  would  have  been 
difficult,  with  Blake  as  his  medical  adviser 
and  general  director.  Well,  well,  it's  all  the 
same,  for  Blake  knows  all  about  it  now,  so  he 
does." 

"  Where  did  he  go  to  ?  "  asked  Inez,  ab 
ruptly,  unable  to  control  her  curiosity. 

"Well— he  left  here— on  an  advinture, 
and  he  wint  to  Italy,  so  he  did — to  Home  in 
fact." 

"  To  Rome  ?  "  repeated  Inez,  in  the  tone 
of  one  who  wished  to  learn  more. 

"  Yis — to  Rome — and  in  Rome  he  stayed." 
"  How  odd  ! "  said  Inez.   "  Is  Rome  a  good 
place  for  a  doctor  ?  " 

"  Sure,  it's  as  good  as  any  place.  Why 
not  ?  Anyhow,  there  he  stayed,  and  there  he 
ia  now." 

Inez  made  no  further  remark.  Rome 
seemed  a  strange  place  for  a  doctor  to  go  to, 
yet  so  it  was,  and  the  fact  set  her  thinking. 


"  He's  settled  there,"  continued  Kevin  Ma. 
grath  after  a  pause.  "  He's  settled  there,  and 
for  good." 

This  was  not  very  pleasant,  on  the  whole, 
to  Inez.  It  looted  like  neglect  and  forget- 
fulness  on  Blake's  part,  and  she  had  expected 
something  'different.  A  sigh  escaped  her  in 
spite  of  herself.  But  then  she  reflected  upon 
her  own  sudden  disappearance,  and  thought 
that  Blake  might  have  made  unsuccessful  ef 
forts  to  find  her,  and  have  given  it  up  at  last 
in  despair. 

"  Yis,"  said  Kevin  Magrath  once  more, 
"  he's  settled  there ;  and  there's  no  injucement 
that  I  know  of  that'd  draw  him  away." 

"  Well,  grandpa  darling,"  said  Bessie  at 
last,  "  we  don't  care  about  this.  We  want  to 
know  more  about  ourselves,  and  our  poor,  dear 
papa,  so  we  do.  You  said  that  he  came  as 
far  as  Paris.  Now,  what  happened  immedi 
ately  after  that  ?  Did  you  tell  him  then  about 
it  all,  and  about  our  darling,  precious  Inez, 
my  own  sweet  sister — or  did  you  postpone  it 
—or—  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  ye  all  about  it,  Bessie  darling, 
and  you  too,  Inez,  my  jool,  but  not  no\v,  not 
just  now.  What  comes  after  this  is  a  mour- 
runful  story ;  and  Bessie,  me  darling,  I  hard 
ly  know  how  I'm  iver  to  tell  it  to  you  at  all 
at  all." 

"  To  me  ! "  exclaimed  Bessie,  in  wonder ; 
"  and  sure,  and  why  not,  thin  ?  " 

"  Well,  thin,  it's  jist  because  it  makes  me 
feel  badly.  There's  things  to  say  that  I  don't 
liVe  to  say  to  ye,  face  to  face.  I'll  tell  it  all 
to  Inez  some  time,  and  she  can  be  after  tell 
ing  it  to  you.  In  this  way,  I'll  allow  the 
story  to  filter,  as  it  were,  through  her  to 
you." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure,  I  think  it's  very  strange, 
so  I  do,  grandpa  darling ;  but  you're  the  best 
judge,  and,  if  it  is  so  awfully  sad,  you  know, 
why,  perhaps,  I'd  better  hear  it  from  Inez,  or, 
perhaps,  I'd  better  not  hear  it  at  all — that  is, 
if  it  is  really  too  very  awfully  sad — for,  sure, 
I  was  niver  the  one  that  was  inclined  to  listen 
to  bad  news,  unless  it  was  necessary." 

"It  depinds  on  what  ye  call  nicissary. 
Howandiver,  ye  can  judge  for  yerself  after, 
ward." 


182 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

ALL     THE     PAST     EXPLAINED. 

Tms  was  the  happiest  day  by  far  that 
Inez  had  known  for  a  long  time.  The  advent 
of  Bessie,  the  restoration  to  her  proper  posi 
tion  in  life,  the  society  of  friends,  all  these 
were  unspeakably  sweet  to  one  who  had  suf 
fered  as  she  had.  But,  above  all,  the  discovery 
that  Bessie  was  her  own  sister  formed  the 
climax  of  all  these  joys ;  and  Inez,  after  the 
first  natural  bewilderment  had  passed,  gave 
herself  up  to  the  delight  of  this  new  relation 
ship.  As  for  Bessie,  she  was,  if  possible, 
still  more  excited.  Naturally  of  a  more  de 
monstrative  disposition  than  Inez,  she  sur 
passed  her  in  her  exhibitions  of  affection  and 
delight,  and  overwhelmed  her  with  caresses. 
Such  a  revelation  as  this  gave  them  material 
for  endless  conversations,  exclamations,  and 
explanations.  Each  one  had  to  tell  all  about 
her  life  and  her  past  reminiscences ;  each  one 
had  to  give  a  minute  account  of  the  state  of 
her  affections  with  regard  to  the  other  ;  and 
all  the  past  was  thus  opened  up  by  the  two 
in  so  far  as  it  might  afford  interest  to  one 
another.  Each  one,  however,  instinctively 
avoided  the  more  mournful  periods  in  that 
past ;  and,  as  Inez  said  nothing  of  her  im 
prisonment,  so  Bessie  said  nothing  of  the 
mournful  events  at  Mordaunt  Manor. 

As  to  the  sufferings  through  which  Inez 
had  gone — her  journey  to  Paris,  the  dis 
covery  of  her  father's  death,  her  imprison 
ment,  the  examination  of  the  letters,  her  sus 
picions,  her  fears,  her  flight,  her  illness,  and 
her  misery,  all  these  constituted  a  part  of  her 
life  upon  which  no  light  had  yet  been  thrown. 
Yet  Kevin  Magrath  had  shown  all  the  impres 
sions  which  she  had  formed  about  him  from 
his  letter  to  Wyverue  to  be  erroneous  ;  and, 
from  what  she  had  seen  of  him,  she  did  not 
doubt  that  he  would  account  for  every  other 
difficulty,  and  prove  to  her  that  she  had  been 
in  every  respect  deceived  in  the  opinions 
which  she  had  formed  about  him.  The  re 
mainder  of  his  story  she  knew  would  be  as 
clear,  as  open,  and  as  natural,  as  the  firsl 
part  had  been ;  and  he  himself  would  stanc 
completely  vindicated. 

On  the. following  morning  Kevin  Magrath 
came  to  breakfast  with  them,  and,  after 
breakfast,  Bessie  withdrew. 

"  I  know,  grandpa  dear,"  said  she,  "  tha 


you'd  rather  not  have  me  just  now,  so  I'll 
o,  and  I'll  hear  it  from  Inez,  if  she  chooses 
to  tell  me ;  and,  if  she  does  not  choose  to 
tell,  why,  I'd  very  much  rather  not  hear. 
And,  what's  more,  I  won't  even  think  about 
it.  Good-by,  you  two  dear  jools  of  life." 

"With  these  words  Bessie  retired,  and  Inez 
waited  for  the  remainder  of  Kevin  Magrath' s 
story. 

He  regarded  her  for  a  few  moments  in  si 
lence,  with  an  expression  on  his  face  that  was 
at  once  affectionate  and  paternal,  and  with  a 
gentle  smile  on  his  lips. 

"Inez,  me  darling,"  said  he,  "ye've  suf 
fered  from  me  more  than  I  dare  to  think  of, 
but  ye'll  see  that  I  wasn't  to  blame,  and  that 
I've  really  suffered  as  much  as  you  have  out 
of  pure  sympathy  and  vixation.  But  I'll  go 
on  in  order,  and  jist  tell  a  plain,  consicutive 
story. 

"Well,  thin,  your  poor  father,  Bernnl 
Mordaunt,  came  here  to  Paris,  as  I  said,  and 
here  I  found  him.  It  was  from  me  that  he 
first  heard  that  one  of  his  daughters  was 
dead.  This  was  his  eldest,  Clara,  his  favorite. 
Whin  I  say  she  was  his  favorite,  ye'll  onder- 
stand  me.  Ye  see,  you  were  only  a  little 
thing— a  baby,  in  fact — barely  able  to  prattle, 
while  Clara  was  many  years  older,  and  had 
been  thus  the  love  and  joy  of  her  father  years 
before  you  were  born.  Ye'll  not  be  pained 
whin  I  say  that  he  could  better  have  spared 
you  than  her.  Anyhow,  so  it  was,  and,  con- 
sequintly,  when  he  heard  that  Clara  was  dead, 
it  was  a  worse  blow  to  him  than  if  a  man  had 
knocked  him  down  sinseless.  It  took  all  the 
life  and  soul  out  of  him.  For  he  had  been 
broken  down  out  in  China,  or  Japan,  orlnjia, 
by  overwork,  and,  whin  he  turruned  his  steps 
homeward,  it  was  his  children  that  he  thought 
of  most ;  and  by  his  children  he  meant,  most 
of  all,  Clara.  So,  whin  he  heard  that  she 
was  dead,  it  was  with  him  for  a  time  as 
though  he  had  lost  the  last  tie  that  bound 
him  to  this  wurruld ;  and  he  couldn't  think 
of  any  thing  but  her.  He  brooded  over  this. 
We  wint  out  to  her  grave  in  Pere-la-Chaise, 
and  thin  he  forrumed  the  desigL  of  conveying 
her  remains  away,  and  depositing  thim  by  the 
side  of  the  remains  of  his  wife.  Now  she— 
your  poor  mother,  Inez  darling — -was  buried 
at  Rome." 

"  Rome  !"  exclaimed  Inez,  in  wonder. 
"  Yis,  at  Rome,  and  to  that  place  your  fa 
ther  determined  to  convey  the  remains    of 


ALL  THE  PAST  EXPLAINED. 


183 


Clara.  He  had  gone  after  your  mother's 
death  to  Rome  to  prepare  for  the  priesthood 
and  his  love  for  his  lost  wife  had  injuced  him 
to  bring  her  body  there.  So  now  he  resolved 
to  take  Clara's  body;  Besides,  he  had  to  go 
back  to  Rome  once  more,  though  he  would 
have  had  time  to  go  for  you  before  returning 
there ;  and  it's  a  thousand  pities  he  didn't ; 
and  it  was  meself  that  was  niver  tired  of 
urging  him  to  do  that  same ;  but  no,  he  was 
brooding  all  the  time  over  his  lost  daughter, 
the  child  of  his  best  love,  and  had  thin  no 
thought  of  you — and  oh,  but  it's  the  pity  he 
didn't  go  for  you,  Inez  darling ! 

"  Well,  I  kept  with  him.  We  had  the  re 
mains  of  Clara  ixhumed,  and  took  thim  to 
Rome,  and  placed  thim  by  the  side  of  her 
mother's  body.  Well,  after  this,  I  tried  to 
turrun  his  thoughts  to  you — to  wean  him 
from  these  dead  loves,  and  bring  to  his  heart 
the  warmth  of  a  living  love.  I  told  him  of 
you,  and  I  told  him  of  Bessie.  Of  Bessie  he 
would  hear  nothing.  There  was  the  same 
coldness  and  avirsion  which  I  had  noticed 
years  before,  and  I  could  do  nothing  with 
him.  He  had  niver  loved  her,  so  I  had  noth 
ing  to  work  on  there ;  but  with  you  it  was 
different,  for  he  recollected  his  little  baby 
Inez,  named  after  his  wife.  He  had  her  por 
trait  once  with  the  portraits  of  the  others, 
and  spoke  of  this  with  much  emotion.  At 
lingth  his  love  for  you  grew  strong  enough  to 
draw  him  away  from  the  dead,  and,  finally, 
the  thought  of  you  filled  all  his  mind. 

"  So,  you  see,  we  set  out  for  England.  We 
reached  Marseilles  and  proceeded  to  Paris. 
The  journey,  however,  was  very  fatiguing  to 
him,  and  by  the  time  we  reached  here  he  was 
unable  to  go  one  step  farther.  He  took  to 
his  bed,  and  out  of  that  bed  he  niver  rose. 
He  had  overtaxed  his  strength,  and  thk  sor 
row  which  he  had  enjured  had  greatly  pros 
trated  him.  For  a  time  he  hoped  against 
hope.  He  would  not  sind  for  you,  though  I 
urged  him,  because  he  wished  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  going  on  to  you,  and  was  afraid 
of  frightening  you.  But  it  was  not  to  be; 
he  grew  worse  and  worse,  and  at  last,  whin  it 
was  almost  over,  whin  he  could  not  write,  he 
sint  for  you. 

"  Even  then  he  tried  to  ease  the  blow — 
poor  man— though  he  only  made  it  worse. 
He  did  not  wish  the  letter  to  come  from  a 
stranger.  He  dictated  it  to  me— but  did  net- 
wish  it  to  seem  dictated,  for  fear  of  frighten 


ing  you.  '  Kevin,'  says  he—'  she'll  be  fright, 
ened,'  says  he— 'just  write  it  as  if  I  was  writ 
ing  it,'  says  he — '  let  her  think  it's  from  me 
own  hand,  and  don't  say  a  word  about  it's  be 
ing  dictated — just  take  it  from  me  own  lips.' 
That's  what  he  said,  and  that's  just  what  I 
did — and,  for  that  matter,  I  don't  suppose'  ye 
ever  thought  otherwise  than  that  poor  Bernal 
wrote  it  with  his  own  hand  ;  but  I  mintion  it 
now  so  as  to  show  ye,  Inez  darling,  that  yer 
poor  father  was  very  far  gone  when  that  let 
ter  was  written. 

"So  far  gone  was  he,  indeed,  that  on  the 
next  day  all  was  over.  Early  that  morning 
he  implored  me  once  more  to  write  to  you. 
'  Kevin  lad,'  says  he,  '  let  her  think  it's  from 
me  own  hand.  It'll  comfort  her  more — if  she 
loves  me — to  think  she  has  something  from 
me.  Kevin,  I  was  to  blame  for  not  going  to 
her  first'  Then  he  hurried  me  on,  and  I 
wrote  word  for  word  just  as  he  spoke — with 
all  his  incoherence  and  disconnected  words — 
and  I  was  pleased  with  his  allusions  to  my 
self—for  sure  I  was  the  only  one  left  for  ye 
to  look  to  after  he  had  gone.  And  I  tell  you 
this  now  about  this  letter.  The  letter  itself 
won't  perhaps  be  so  pricious  in  your  eyes, 
Inez  darling — but  the  love  of  that  father  ought 
to  be  still  more  pricious,  who  died  while  lav- 
shing  upon  you  the  last  treasures  of  his 
love. 

"Well,"  continued  Kevin  Magrath,  after  a 
thoughtful  pause,  "  at  that  hour  there  was  one 
to  whom  he  ought  to  have  given  a  thought — 
'is — one  to  whom  he  ought  to  have  given 
many  thoughts — one  who  should  have  had  at 
east  a  share — yis,  equal  shares  with  you,  Inez 
— in  his  love.  I  mean  my  poor  Bessie.  Niv 
er  did  I  cease  to  try  to  bring  before  him  that 
disowned^  that  injured  child— his  own  child — 
cast  out  from  the  moment  of  her  birth — ig 
nored — disliked — hated.  Oh,  sure,  but  it  was 
meself  that  was  heart-broken  about  that 
same;  and  me  trying  all  the  time  to  injuce 
him  to  show  her,  if  not  affection,  at  least 
common  justice.  But  my  efforts  were  all  in 
vain.  I  could  not  get  him  to  feel  the  slight 
est  interest  in  her.  There  was  coldness,  and 
even  aversion,  in  his  manner  wheniver  I  intro- 
juced  that  subject.  When  I  spoke  about  her, 
he  would  be  at  first  fretful ;  then,  overcoming 
this,  he  would  take  up  an  attichude  of  patient 
enjurance,  lik$  one  who  was  putting  a  great 
constraint  upon  himself.  And  oh!  but  my 
heart  bled  for  the  poor  child.  I  knew  what: 


184 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


she  was.  I  felt  that,  if  he  could  but  see  her, 
he  must  love  her— yet  here  lie  was,  turning 
himself  away,  without  one  word  to  send  her, 
even  from  his  death-bed  And,  Inez  darling, 
I,  who  know  Bessie,  I,  who  know  her  tender, 
gentle,  loving  heart,  her  susceptible  nature, 
her  sweet,  innocent,  childlike  ways — I  know 
this,  that,  if  she  was  aware  of  the  aversion  of 
her  father  for  her,  her  heart  would  break,  so 
it  would — she  would  die,  so  she  would.  Poor, 
poor,  darling  Bessie!  disowned  and  outcast 
from  her  father's  heart,  from  her  birth  till 
his  death ! 

"And  this,"  continued  Kevin  Magrath, 
with  manifest  emotion,  "  this  is  what  I  can 
never  tell  her,  never-  I  don't  even  know  how 
to  begin  to  tell  her.  I  can't  begin  to  mintion 
it.  And  therefore,  me  child,  I  tell  it  to  you, 
hoping  that  you  may  find  some  gentle  way  of 
letting  her  know  all  about  it.  You  may  suc 
ceed  where  I  would  fail." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Inez,  mournfully.  "  Oh, 
no,  I  could  never,  never  tell  it.  There  is  no 
way  by  which  such  a  thing  could  be  told.  I 
could  not  have  the  heart  to  hint  at  it.  I 
could  not  even  begin  to  tell  her  about  that 
last  scene,  for  fear  she  would  ask  me  what 
message  he  had  left  for  her.  And  oh  !  how 
sad  not  to  be  able  to  give  any  message,  how 
ever  formal  or  commonplace  !  Oh,  how  cruel 
it  was — how  cruel !  And,  poor,  tender-heart 
ed  Bessie,  with  her  affectionate  nature  and 
her  heart  of  love  ! " 

Kevin  Magrath  wiped  his  eyes. 

"  We  can't  iver  mintion  it,"  said  he,  "  as 
far  as  I  can  see.  It  can't  be  done,  unless  you 
may  find  some  way  some  day,  and  that  I 
doubt,  so  I  do.  "We'll  have  to  smother  it  up, 
and  avoid  the  subject.  But  oh !  it  was  a  sin, 
so  it  was,  to  pass  out  of  the  worruld  in  such 
a  way.  And  ye  don't  think,  thin,  me  child, 
that  ye  could  find  any  way  to  break  it  to 
her?" 

"No,"  said  Inez;  "impossible.  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  speak  of  this  subject  at  all, 
or  to  allow  her  to  speak  of  it.  It  seems  to 
me  that,  while  she  was  hearing  of  his  love  for 
Clara  and  for  me,  she  would  feel  an  intoler 
able  pang  at  finding  herself  cast  out.  No,  she 
ought  never  to  know — never ! " 

Kevin  Magrath  sighed. 

"Well,"  continued  he,  "that  letter  was 
the  last  act  of  your  poor  falher,  for  he  died 
not  long  after;  and,  for  my  part,  I  was  over- 
whellumed.  I  knew  that  you  might  be  com 


ing,  me  child,  and  I  was  afraid  to  meet  you— 
afraid  to  stay  and  be  the  witness  of  your 
grief.  Now,  your  poor  father  had  made  me 
promise  that  I  would  have  him  buried  by  the 
side  of  his  wife  and  child,  in  Rome ;  and  so, 
when  he  was  removed  from  the  house,  I  at 
once  went  to  fulfil  my  promise,  and  started 
for  Rome  with  his  remains,  afraid  to  wait  and 
meet  you,  and  leaving  to  others  the  task  of 
breaking  to  you  the  awful  news.  The  worst 
of  it  was,  it  was  your  poor  father  himself  who 
had  put  me  in  such  a  position,  by  obstinately 
refusing  to  write,  or  to  let  me  write,  until  it 
was  too  late.  ...  So,  me  child,  I  took  away 
the  mortal  remains  of  my  frind,  and  of  your 
father,  and  I  conveyed  thim  to  Rome — and 
there  I  buried  thim,  by  the  side  of  his  wife 
and  his  child,  your  sister  Clara,  and  there 
they  all  are  now  side  by  side." 

There  was  a  long  silence  now. 

"  Is  there  a  cemetery,  or  are  they  buried 
in  some  church  ? "  asked  Inez,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  There  is  a  cimetery  in  Rome,"  said  Ke 
vin  Magrath,  slowly  and  solemnly,  "  the  likes 
of  which  doesn't  exist  in  all  the  wide  wur- 
ruld — a  cimetery,  eighteen  hundred  years  old, 
filled  with  the  mowldering  rimnants  of  apos 
tles,  and  saints,  and  martyrs,  and  confissors — 
a  cimetery,  to  lie  in  which  robs  death  of  half 
its  terrors,  and  there  now  repose  all  that  is 
mortal  of  your  father,  your  mother,  and  your 
sister." 

"  Oh !"  cried  Inez,  "  what  place  can  that 
be  ?  Is  there  such  a  cemetery  ?  What  is 
its  name  ?  I  have  never  heard  of  it." 

"The  cimetery  that  I  speak  of,"  said 
Kevin  Magrath,  solemnly,  "is  known  as — the 
Roman  Catacombs." 

"  The  Roman  Catacombs  !  "  repeated  Inez, 
in  a  voice  full  of  awe. 

"  The  Roman  Catacombs,"  said  Kevin 
Magrath.  "There  they  lie,  side  by  side — 
they  who  loved  one  another  on  earth,  and 
who  are  thus  joined  in  death,  awaiting  the 
resurrection  morn." 

Inez  made  no  remark,  and  a  long  silence 
followed.  Kevin  Magrath  was  the  first  to 
break  it,  and  he  went  on  to  continue  his 
story : 

"  Whin  I  left,"  said  he,  "  I  told  Gounod 
that  you  were  coming,  and  I  told  him  what  to 
do.  I  told  him  about  the  sorrow  you'd  be 
in,  and  urged  him  to  attind  upon  you,  and  do 
all  that  he  could  for  you.  I  knew  he  could 


ALL   THE   PAST   EXPLAINED. 


185 


do  nothing  to  alleviate  such  sorrow  as  you 
would  have  ;  so  I  laid  great  stress  upon  his 
keeping  watch  over  you,  so  as  to  find  out 
your  wants.     In  fact,  I  overwhellumed  him 
with  dirictions.     Well,  I  wint  away,  and  I 
stayed  away  for  weeks,  waiting  impatiently 
till  the  time  whin  I  might  suppose  your  grief 
to  be  moderated ;  and  thin  I  came  back ;  and 
I  assure  ye,  me  child,  I  was  fairly  tremblin 
with  agitation  at  the  thought  of  meeting  you 
in  your  bereavemint.    And  what  do  you  think 
awaited  me  ?    What !    Sure,  you  may  imagine. 
Gounod,  with  his  bewildermint,  and  the  owld 
hag  Briset,  both  voluble  and  eloquint  about 
your  iscape.     Iscape  !     As  if  I  iver  mint  any 
thing  else  !     Iscape !     Why,  it  was  as  if  it 
had  been  a  prison  they  had  made  for  you — 
and  so  it  was,  and  nothing  else  in  the  wide 
worruld.      The  fool!    the  beast!   the  idiot! 
he  had  utterly  misunderstood  me  ;  I  had  en- 
joined  upon  him  to  watch  you  like  a  servant, 
and  he  had  watched  you  like  a  jailer.     I  un 
derstood  well  how  your  nature  must  have 
chafed   against  restraint    and    surveillance ; 
and  thin,  whin  I  thought  of  you,  all  alone 
after   your  maid  had  gone,  me  heart  fairly 
ached  for  you,  so  it  did.     My  very  desire  to 
spare  you  pain  had  caused  fresh  pain  to  you, 
Inez  darling  ;  and  you  were  lost  to  me,  for  I 
dared  not  search  for  you.     I  was  afraid  that, 
if  I  did,  you  would  misunderstand  it  all,  and 
be  all  the  more  terrified ;  and  what's  more, 
even  if  I  had  found  you,  I  should  not  have 
been  able  to  look  you  in  the  face.     I  couldn't 
have  spoken  one  word.     I  wrote  frantic  let 
ters  to  Bessie,  and  she  wrote  back  letters  full 
of  anxiety,  telling  me  that  she  had  heard 
nothing  about  you,  and  knew  nothing.     I  de 
clare  to  you,  me  child,  those  days  were  the 
worst  I  iver  knew  in  all  my  life.     And  so  it 
wint  on,  and  I  was  in  helplessniss  and  dispair 
until  this  blessed  time,  until  yesterday,  when 
Bessie  hersilf  came  with  the  glad  news  about 
you  ;  and  I  hurried  her  away  to  meet  you,  and 
waited  here,  with  me  old  heart  throbbing  chu- 
multuously  while  she  was  gone.     But  at  last 
she  returruned,  and  you  with  her;  and  thin  I 
had  a  chance  to  explain,  in  a  gradual  way, 
.  and  at  least  to  let  you  know  that,  if  you  had 
suffered,  I,  at  least,  was  innocent.     And  sure 
to  glory,  but  it's  meself  that  was  the  happy 
man  last  night." 

So  ended  Kevin  Magrath's  story,  and  that 
story  had  sunk  deep  into  the  soul  of  Inez. 
Many  conclusions  had  she  gathered  from 


that  story ;  and,  as  she  listened  to  its  detailsi 
one  by  one  the  frightful  dangers  that  seemed 
to  have  hovered  about  her  past,  or  appeared 
to  impend  over  her  present,  were  dispelled. 
At  length,  they  all  seemed  no  more  than  the 
creations  of  her  own  fancy. 

The  letter  to  Wyverne,  which  had  been 
the  first  of  these  troubles,  was  fully  ex 
plained.  Wyverne's  emotion  at  its  reception, 
his  terror  of  Berual  Mordaunt,  his  dying  dec 
laration — all  these  were  made  plain,  all  except 
his  assertion  that  Dr.  Blake  was  his  son,  and 
on  this  she  laid  but  little  stress  now,  since 
she  thought  that  she  could  ask  about  that  at 
any  other  time.  With  these  were  also  ex 
plained  the  similarity  in  the  handwriting  of 
the  different  letters,  the  mystery  that  had 
overwhelmed  her  in  her  prison-house,  the 
absence  of  Kevin  Magrath,  the  espionage  and 
strict  guardianship  of  Gounod — all  these  were 
explained,  and  the  terrors  that  they  had  ex 
cited  vanished  like  so  many  dreams.  Out  of 
all  this  there  remained  prominent  several 
things  : 

First.  Kevin  Magrath  was  a  high-minded, 
noble-hearted  man — the  friend  of  her  father, 
of  Bessie,  and  of  herself. 

Secondly.  Bessie  was  her  own  sister. 

Thirdly.  Her  father,  her  mother,  and  her 
sister  Clara,  were  all  buried  at  Rome. 

Fourthly.  Dr.  Blake  was  also  at  Rome — 
"  settled  there,"  as  Kevin  Magrath  had  ex 
pressed  it. 

"  Inez  darling,  me  child,"  said  Kevin 
Magrath,  after  a  long  silence,  "  I  am  very 
anxious  to  go  to  Rome,  and,  if  ye  would  like 
to  go  to  see  the  graves  of  yer  father,  yer 
mother,  and  yer  sister,  I  should  like  to  show 
them  to  ye ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  if  ye  feel 
reluctant  about  going,  it's  no  matter.  Bessie 
is  anxious  to  go  and  fulfil  a  daughter's  juty 
to  those  who  niver  perforrumed  a  parent's 
part  to  her;  and  I  thought  that  you,  the  dear 
child  of  their  care  and  their  love,  might  have 
the  same  feelings." 

At  this  proposal  Inez  at  once  thought  of 
the  far-off  graves  of  those  dear  ones  whom 
she  had  lost,  and  there  arose  a  sudden  long 
ing  to  visit  in  death  those  whom  she  had 
"ailed  to  meet  in  life.  With  these  came  other 
thoughts,  less  holy,  yet  equally  strong — she 
thought  of  Blake.  Yes,  Rome  was  a  place 
which  presented  stronger  attractions  to  her 
han  any  other. 

"  Rome ! "  said  she.     "  Oh,  how  I  long  to 


188 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


go    there!       And     will     you     really    take 

me?" 

"  I  should  be  glad  beyond  all  things  if  you 
would  come  with  us,"  said  Kevin  Magrath. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE   TENDERNESS   OP   BESSIE. 

KANE  and  Gwyn  hurried  on  to  Paris  as 
soon  as  possible,  and  were  not  more  than 
twenty-four  hours  behind  Bessie.  On  the 
following  day  they  arrived  there,  and  drove 
first  to  Kane's  lodgings.  Then  they  went  to 
the  place  where  Inez  had  been,  and  learned 
that  Bessie  had  taken  her  away,  and  that 
they  had  gone  to  the  Hotel  Gascoigne.  This 
news  did  not  in  any  way  lessen  the  anxiety 
that  Kane  had  felt ;  for  it  seemed  to  him  that 
this  movement  might  carry  both  of  them  into 
the  very  hands  of  their  worst  enemy.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  there  could  be  no  cer 
tainty  of  their  safety  until  he  could  see  Inez 
herself,  and  find  out  what  her  circumstances 
were;  when,  if  there  was  really  any  appear 
ance  of  danger,  he  might  warn  her,  or  con 
front  Magrath  himself.  So  great  were  his 
fears  now,  that  he  hardly  expected  to  find 
either  of  the  ladies,  but  was  rather  inclined 
to  fear  that  Kevin  Magrath,  the  moment  that 
he  found  them  both  in  his  power,  had  con 
trived  some  specious  pretext  for  conveying 
them  to  some  other  place,  where  they  would 
be  out  of  reach.  It  was  with  the  dread  of 
this  at  his  heart,  that  he  accompanied  Gwyn 
to  the  Hotel  Gascoigne. 

But  the  first  thing  that  they  heard  on 
asking  after  the  ladies  drove  away  all  fear. 
They  were  both  there,  and  Kevin  Magrath 
was  there  also.  Kane  was  hardly  prepared 
for  such  good  news ;  and  for  a  moment  did 
not  know  what  there  was  for  him  to  do.  He 
had  come  here  in  all  haste  as  the  champion 
of  the  oppressed,  but  the  comfortable  sur 
roundings  of  Inez  put  the  idea  of  any  very 
imminent  danger  out  of  his  head.  She  had 
Bessie  with  her,  and  here  was  Gwyn,  who 
could  be  an  additional  protector. 

Gwyn  hurried  up  after  the  gar9on  to  the 
apartments  where  his  wife  was,  followed  by 
Kane.  On  reaching  the  landing,  there  was  a 
sudden  cry  of  joy,  and  a  beautiful  being,  all 
in  the  glory  of  golden  hair  and  azure  eyes, 
flung  herself  into  Gwyn's  arms. 


"  Sure,  didn't  I  know  you'd  be  here  this 
blessed  morning,  Gwynnie  darling  ? "  cried 
Bessie  ;  "  didn't  I  say  you  couldn't  stay  more 
than  a  day  without  me  and  be  alive  ?  and  so 
I've  been  waiting  here  in  the  hall  for  hours 
and  hours,  so  I  have.  But  you're  here  at 
last,  and  that's  all  I  want.  And  oh,  ain't  you 
very,  very  much  fatigued,  darling?  and  were 
you  ever  quite  so  happy  in  your  life  ?  " 

To  this  torrent  of  loving  words  Gwyn  said 
nothing.  Such  a  reception  overwhelmed  him. 
He  had  expected  some  coldness — some  hang 
ing  back.  He  had  prepared  himself  for  some 
humiliation  on  his  own  part.  But  this  was 
the  reality  that  awaited  him — the  utter  for- 
getfulness  of  every  thing  but  her  love — this 
perfect  forgiveness  that  did  not  leave  room 
for  any  attempt  at  explanations.  He  could 
not  utter  a  word,  but  pressed  her,  in  silence 
and  with  moistened  eyes,  to  his  heart. 

"  And  Kane,  too  !  "  cried  Bessie,  as  soon 
as  she  could  free  herself  from  Gwyn's  arms  ; 
sure,  but  you're  welcome,  Kane  dear,  and 
it's  great  news  that  I've  got  to  tell.  Inez  is 
here,  safe  and  happy,  and  you'll  want  to  see 
her." 

She  held  out  her  little  hand  with  a  beam 
ing  smile,  and  Kane  pressed  it  tenderly. 

"  You'll  want  to  see  Inez,"  said  Bessie, 
as  Kane  hesitated. 

By  this  time  Kane  had  felt  himself  some 
what  de  trop.  The  exceeding  and  unexpected 
warmth  of  this  greeting  between  husband  and 
wife  did  not  seem  warranted  by  so  short  a 
separation,  even  on  the  grounds  of  their  being 
yet  hardly  out  of  their  honey-moon  ;  but  still, 
there  it  was,  and  he  saw  the  intense  agitation 
of  Gwyn,  and  suspected  that  something  had 
taken  place  before  Bessie's  flight  from  Ruth- 
ven  Towers  which  had  caused  that  flight  and 
Gwyn's  present  emotion.  He  saw  that  some 
explanations  or  other  were  probably  required 
by  these  two,  and  therefore  concluded  to  re 
tire  for  the  present. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  I  think  I'll 
look  in  again.  She  is  well,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Better  than  I  ever  knew  her.  But  you'd 
better  come  in  and  see  her.  She'll  be  awful 
ly  disappointed." 

"  Oh,  I'll  come  again  some  time  to-day," 
said  Kane ;  "  it's— it's— a  little  inconvenient 
just  now — ah,  under  the  circumstances — so 
I'll  only  ask  you  to  remember  me  very  kindly 
to  her,  and  tell  her  that  I  hope  to  see  her  this 
evening." 


THE   TENDERNESS   OF  BESSIE. 


187 


Bessie  urged  him  a  little  longer,  though 
rather  more  faintly,  but  Kane  persisted  in 
his  refusal,  and  at  length  retreated,  leaving 
the  husband  and  wife  to  themselves. 

All  this  had  taken  place  on  the  landing 
of  the  stairway.  As  soon  as  Kane  retired, 
Bessie  took  Gwyn's  arm  fondly  and  led  him 
to  her  rooms.  Inez  was  not  there,  and  Gwyn 
was  better  pleased  to  be  alone  with  his  wife. 

Here  they  sat  down  side  by  side,  quite 
lover-fashion,  while  Gwyn  was  so  overcome 
by  his  unexpected  happiness  that  he  had  not 
yet  found  words,  but  sat  devouring  her  with 
his  eyes.  Bessie  looked  tenderly  at  him,  and, 
with  one  of  her  characteristic  smiles,  ex 
claimed  : 

"  Sure,  I  oughtn't  to  be  so  forgiving,  so  I 
oughtn't,  and  there  you  have  it.  But  oh,  I 
was  so  awfully  glad  to  see  you,  you  know, 
Gwynnie  dear." 

"And — do — do  you  really  for — forgive 
me  ?  "  faltered  Gwyn. 

"  Oh,  come  now,  we  won't  talk  about  it, 
sure  actions  speak  louder  than  words,  and 
my  actions  have  spoken  very,  very  loudly, 
Gwynnie  darling,  so  they  have." 

"  0  darling,  I  shall  never  be  able  to 
forgive  myself." 

"  Oh,  come,  Gwynnie,  sure  we  won't  talk 
about  it  at  all,  at  all.  It  was  only  a  miser 
able  fancy  of  yours,  so  it  was,  a  wild  deluder- 
ing  notion,  but,  tell  me,  sure  you  didn't  go 
and  tell  Kane  about  it  then  ?  " 

"  Tell  Kane !  Of  course  not,  darling. 
How  could  I  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  How  could  you  ?  Sure 
ly  not." 

"  I  dare  say  he's  noticed  trouble  on  my 
face  and  in  my  manner." 

"  Like  enough,  for  it  was  very,  very  sad, 
and  is  one  of  those  things,  Gwynnie  darling, 
that  one  really  can't  think  about.  Its  posi 
tively  too  heart-breaking.  And  I  won't  say  I 
didn't  feel  cut  up  myself,  for  I  did,  but  you 
know  I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  have  a  scene 
with  you  about  it,  and  I  thought,  Gwynnie, 
that  the  best  way  to  do  was  to  leave  you  to 
yourself,  when  you'd  find  out  your  mistake 
the  sooner,  so  you  would  ;  and  my  first  inten 
tion  was  only  to  go  to  Mordaunt  Manor ;  but, 
on  my  way  there,  I  thought  of  poor,  dear, 
darling  Inez,  and  decided  that  it  would  be 
very  much  nicer  and  better  for  her,  and  for 
you,  and  for  myself,  to  come  here  and  see 
her.  And  that's  just  the  very  thing  I  did, 


you  know,  and  so  you  see,  Gwynnie  darling, 
it's  my  opinion  that  we  had  better  not  men 
tion  it  again,  for  really  you  know,  darling,  it 
isn't  a  thing  that  one  can  very  well  say  much 
about.  Besides,  I'm  so  bursting  with  the 
wonderful  discovery  I've  made.  And  oh,  what 
in  the  wide  world  will  dear  Kane  say  and 
think?  and  oh,  Gwynnie  darling,  how  I  do  wish 
he  had  stayed  and  seen  her  !  For  she's  here, 
you  know ;  I  found  her  and  brought  her  here, 
and  she's  here  now,  so  she  is,  the  jool  of 
life ! " 

"  You  mean  Inez  ?  "  asked  Gwyn,  with  a 
sigh. 

"Inez?  Of  course.  Who  else?  And 
what  do  you  think  ?  Oh,  you  would  never 
guess  —  never,  never!  Oh,  it's  the  very 
strangest  thing  and  the  gladdest  thing,  so  it 
is!" 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Gwyn,  who  won- 
dered  what  that  could  be  which  was  able  to 
excite  Bessie  at  such  a  moment  as  this.  For 
his  own  part,  all  the  rest  of  the  world  seemed 
then  a  matter  of  indifference. 

"  You'd  never  guess,  so  you  wouldn't — 
never — and  so  I'll  have  to  tell  you,"  said 
Bessie,  "though  I  don't  think  you  will  really 
believe  it,  at  all  at  all,  that  is,  not  just  at 
first,  you  know,  for  it's  so  awfully  funny, 
Gwynnie  dear.  It's  this  :  You  know  my  dar 
ling  Inez,  how  I  love  her,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  and  we've  always  been  just  like  sisters, 
too,  you  know — oh,  she's  such  a  darling  ! — 
well,  do  you  know,  Gwynnie  dear,  I've  just 
found  out  that  she  really  is  my  very  own  sis 
ter." 

"  Your  what  ?  Your  sister  ?  Why,  what 
do  you  mean?  How  can  that  be?"  asked 
Gwyn,  in  great  amazement,  and  thoroughly 
roused  now  by  this  startling  intelligence. 

"Sure  I  mean  what  I  say;  things  have 
come  to  light  that  I  never  knew  before,  and 
there  isn't  the  least  doubt  in  life  but  it's  all 
gospel  truth,  so  it  is  ;  and  only  think  of  my 
own  darling  Inez  being  my  own  sister ! " 

"  What !  is  her  name  Inez  Mordaunt  ?  " 
asked  Gwyn,  in  amazement. 

"  Sure  and  it  is,  and  I  got  things  all  mixed 
up  in  my  mind,  so  I  did.  I  was  told  my 
name  was  Inez,  though  they  always  called 
me  Bessie,  but  it's  my  other  sister  that 
owned  the  name,  after  all ;  and  don't  you 
think  it's  all  awfully  funny,  Gwynnie  dar 
ling?" 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  what  to  think,  for  I 


188 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


don't  understand  it  at  all ;  but  I'm  very  glad, 
indeed,  darling  Bessie,  if  you  are.  I  care  for 
no  one  but  you." 

"  And  sure  and  I  don't  care  much  for  any 
body  but  you,  Gwynnie,  if  it  comes  to  that," 
said  Bessie,  giving  him  a  look  of  touching 
fondness,  and  trustful,  innocent  affection,  that 
sent  a  thrill  of  rapture  through  Gwyn's  heart. 
The  consequences  that  might  ensue  from  her 
thus  finding  another  sister  did  not  occur  to 
him.  He  did  not  think  of  asking  whether 
this  sister  was  older  or  younger.  The  heri 
tage  of  Mordaunt  Manor  was  at  that  moment 
of  no  interest  to  him.  The  presence  of  Bes 
sie  was  enough,  and  the  certainty  that  she 
loved  him  still  prevented  him  from  feeling 
any  uneasiness  about  the  future.  It  was 
from  her,  or  rather  for  her  sake,  that  the 
temptation  had  come  to  him  on  the  top  of 
the  hill ;  and  now,  for  her  sake,  he  had  be 
come  for  the  time  indifferent  to  wealth,  to 
rank,  to  title,  to  every  thing,  except  the  love 
that  he  felt  for  her. 

Bessie  went  on  to  tell  him  all  that  she 
knew  about  it— her  narrative  comprising  that 
which  Kevin  Magrath  had  told  her  and  Inez 
while  they  were  together — but  of  course  not 
touching  upon  those  disclosures  which  he  had 
made  to  Inez  alone. 

"  So  you  see,  Gwynnie  dearest,"  said  she, 
as  she  concluded,  "  Mordaunt  Manor  isn't 
mine  now,  at  all  at  all,  so  it  isn't,  no  more 
than  Ruthven  Towers  is  yours,  not  a  bit;  and 
the  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  Gwynnie,  that 
you  and  I  are  two  beggars,  and  don't  you  call 
that  awfully  funny,  now  ?  " 

Gwyn  looked  at  her  with  moist  eyes,  and, 
drawing  her  closer  to  his  heart,  he  kissed  her 
fair  brow. 

"  Darling ! "  said  he,  fervently,  "  I  never 
valued  vour  love  so  much  before,  and  it  is  so 
precious  to  me  that,  if  I  lost  all  the  rest  that 
I  have  in  the  world,  I  should  not  care.  Let 
Ruthven  Towers  go.  Let  Mordaunt  Manor 
go.  It  will  be  strange  if  I  cannot  take  care 
of  you  still.  As  long  as  I  have  you  I  am  con 
tent." 

"And  0  Gwynnie,"  continued  Bessie, 
"  wasn't  it  the  wonderful  thing  that  I  said — 
you  remember,  of  course — it  was,  maybe  my 
sister  might  be  alive  and  come  forward, 
meant  my  sister  Clara,  for  I  thought  I  was 
Inez,  but  Clara,  poor  darling,  is  dead,  glory 
be  with  her,  and  so  it's  not  Clara,  but  Inez, 
that  has  appeared  ;  and  do  you  know,  Gwyn 


nie  dear,  the  more  I  think  of  all  this  the  fun 
nier  it  seems — now,  doesn't  it  ?  And  then, 
again,  it  does  seem  so  awfully  funny,  you 
know,  for  you  to  give  up  your  title,  and  for 
me  to  give  up  mine,  and  for  both  of  us  to  be 
plain  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  and  that,  too,  after  all 
our  splendor,  and  all  the  congratulations  of 
the  county,  and  to  have  to  work  for  our  liv 
ing.  Really,  Gwynnie  dear,  it  makes  me 
laugh." 

Gwyn  smiled,  out  of  pure  delight,  to  see 
Bessie  taking  this  approach  of  adversity  so 
pleasantly. 

"And  I  thought,  so  I  did,"  continued 
Bessie,  "  that  poor,  darling  Clara  was  alive, 
perhaps,  after  all ;  but  no,  it  seems  she  is 
really  dead,  for  do  you  know,  Gwynnie  dear, 
poor,  dear  papa,  before  he  came  to  Mordaunt 
Manor,  visited  her  grave  here,  and  then  he 
and  dear  grandpa  Magrath — who  really  isn't 
my  grandpa,  you  know,  after  all,  but  I  must 
call  him  so  still — well,  those  two  had  the  re 
mains  of  poor,  dear  Clara  exhumed  and  taken 
to  Rome,  where  they  buried  her  again  by  the 
side  of  poor,  dear  mamma,  who,  it  seems,  is 
buried  there  also.  And  oh,  it's  very  sad,  so 
it  is,  to  find  out,  after  all,  that  really  she  is 
so  very,  very  dead,  you  know  ! 

"And  you  know,  Gwynnie  dear,"  con 
tinued  Bessie,  after  a  few  moments  of  mourn 
ful  thought,  "  dear  Inez  is  going  to  Rome,  for 
she  remembers  dear  Clara,  and,  having  lost 
her  in  life,  she  longs  to  go,  as  she  says,  and 
pray  over  her  grave.  For  dear  grandpa  says 
that  poor,  dear  Clara  was  not  well  treated,  at 
all  at  all,  and  there  was  sadness  and  sorrow 
about  her  death. 

"And  then,  again,"  resumed  Bessie, 
"there's  another  reason  why  dear  Inez  is 
willing  to  go,  for  there's  a  great  friend  of 
hers — and  of  dear  Kane's,  too.  and  of  mine, 
too,  for  that  matter — Dr.  Blake,  the  one  that 
attended  poor,  dear  Guardy  Wyverne ;  well, 
dear  grandpa  says  that  Dr.  Blake  is  in 
Rome;  that  'he's  settled  down'  there,  and 
is  likely  to  remain ;  and  I  think  dear  Inez  is 
rather  in  hopes  of  seeing  him  somewhere 
about  Rome,  and  so  you  see,  Gwynnie  dear, 
she  has  two  very  strong  reasons  for  going, 
and  dear  grandpa  is  going  to  take  her." 

"  Does  she  know  of  her  father's  death  ?  " 
asked  Gwyn. 

"  Sure  and  she  must.  Grandpa  had  a 
long  talk  alone  with  her,  and  told  her  all 
about  every  thing,  and  things,  too,  that  he 


THE   TENDERNESS   OF  BESSIE. 


189 


didn't  want  me  to  hear,  about  my  infancy,  I 
believe,  for  fear  it  would  make  me  too  sad  ; 
and,  after  it  all  was  over,  she  looked  at  me — 
0  Gwynnie  !  such  a  look — so  awfully  sad  and 
sorrowful !     And  oh,  but  I  had  the  sore  heart 
for  her,  poor  darling  !  and  I  didn't  dare  to  say 
a  word,  for  sure  it  seemed  to  me  just  as 
though  I'd  been  serving  her  as    Jacob   did 
Esau — just  for  all  the  wide  world  as  though  I 
had  taken  her  name  and  place — for  poor,  dar 
ling  papa  took  me  for  Inez,  and  died  blessing 
me  as  Inez.     But  really,  Gwynnie  darling,  it 
wasn't  my  fault,  so  it  wasn't — for  didn't  I 
think  I  was  Inez  ?     Sure  I  did.     Still,  that 
doesn't  change  matters  for  her,  and,  however 
innocent  I  was  about  it,  the  fact  remains — 
and  oh,  but  it  must  be  the  sore  fact  for  her! 
But,  if  any  one's  to  blame,  it's  poor  Guardy 
Wyverne,  -who  went  and  changed  her  name. 
And  oh,  but  it  was  hard  on  her,  so  it  was,  for 
she's  suffered  more  than  her  share  on  account 
of  it.     And  I  can't  help  feeling  that  I've  had 
a  share  in  the  wrong,  and  that  I've  been 
happy  at  her  expense.    And  I'm  anxious  to 
make  some  amends,  and  I  won't  be  able  to  be 
naPP7>  at  all  at  all,  unless  I  do  something  to 
console  her.     I'm  her  chief  consolation  now 
— and  oh,  but  it's  the  blessed  thing  that  I 
hurried  on  as  I  did  !  " 

Bessie  stopped,  and  looked  with  an  expres 
sion  of  anxious  inquiry  at  her  husband. 

"  Gwynnie  dearest,"  said  she,  in  her  most 
winning  tone. 

"  Well,  darling  ?  " 

"  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something  now  that 
you  won't  like ;  but  it  must  be  done,  and  I 
won't  keep  you  in  suspense  about  it.  I  have 
told  Inez  that  I  would  devote  myself  to  her 
for  a  short  time,  and  that  we  would  be  just 
as  we  used  to  be.  She  objected,  poor  darling, 
and  said  that  she  would  not  like  to  take  me 
from  you  ;  but  I  laughed,  and  said  that  you 
would  not  object  if  I  wanted  it,  and  that  you 
would  be  willing  to  do  any  little  thing  you 
could  if  it  would  be  for  her  good.  And  so 
you  will,  Gwynnie  dear,  for  here  is  my  dear 
sister  Inez,  the  one  that  I've  wronged  so 
much  without  knowing  it,  and  she's  suffered 
awfully,  and  she  needs  loving  care  and  atten 
tion,  and  I  am  the  only  living  being  that  can 
give  her  this.  So  please,  Gwynnie  dear,  don't 
be  after  looking  so  dismal,  for  there  are  du 
ties  that  I  have  in  the  world  besides  those  I 
owe  to  you,  and  I'm  not  the  one  to  stand  by 
and  see  my  darling  Inez— my  new-found  sis- 
13 


ter — after  suffering  so  much,  left  alone  with- 
out  any  congenial  friends.  Of  course,  dear 
grandpa  would  do  every  thing  in  the  wide 
world  for  her,  so  he  would ;  but  he  is  not 
what  she  wants,  at  all  at  all,  nor  is  Mrs.  Lu- 

grin.     She  wants  an  old  friend— an  equal 

her  sister— myself— and  it's  myself  that's  the 
only  one  she  can  get  comfort  from.  And  so, 
Gwynnie,  as  I  know  you  have  a  tender  heart, 
and  are  not  selfish,  why,  sure  you'll  quietly 
let  me  go  for  a  while,  and  devote  myself  to 
my  sweet  sister." 

This  proposal  threw  great  gloom  over 
Gwyn.  Yet  the  recollection  of  his  own  deep 
offence,  and  the  total  and  complete  reconcilia 
tion  with  Bessie,  and  her  sweet  and  graceful 
forgiveness,  all  made  it  impossible  for  him  to 
oppose  her  wishes,  especially  when  expressed 
for  such  a  purpose. 

"  And  must  I  go  home  ?  "  he  asked,  dis 
mally. 

"Go  home,  is  it?  Not  you.  You  must 
come  to  Rome.  Go  home  !  Why,  what  an 
awful  idea,  Gwynnie  darling !  Oh,  no.  You 
must  come  on  to  Rome,  and  perhaps  dear 
Kane  may  come,  too.  Bring  him ;  you'll 
both  be  the  happier  for  it,  and  we'll  see  one 
another  all  the  time.  When  I  said  I  was  go 
ing  to  devote  myself  to  Inez,  I  didn't  mean 
that  I  was  going  away  from  you  altogether. 
I  want  to.  have  you  near,  Gwynnie  darling, 
and  see  you  every  day." 

Gwyn  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 
"  I'll  pretend  that  I'm  a  lover  again,  Bes 
sie  darling,"  said  he,  sadly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  do— do,  dear,  darling  Gwynnie ; 
it  will  be  so  awfully  nice,  and  funny,  and  all 
that.  And  you  must  bring  Kane  to  Rome 
for  company.  He'll  want,  perhaps,  to  come 
with  the  rest  of  us,  and  join  in  our  prayers 
over  dear  Clara's  grave.  Oh,  how  awfully 
nice !  Only  think — that  is,  I  don't  exactly 
mean  nice — but  you  understand,  dear.  I 
want  to  ask  himself,  if  I  only  can.  But  he'll 
be  here  this  evening ;  he  must  come  to  see 
dear  Inez;  she  talks  so  much  about  him.  Be 
sides,  he'll  be  glad  to  know  that  every  thing 
Is  explained." 


190 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


CHAPTER    XLVI. 

BEFORE  HIS   JUDGE. 

ON  returning  to  Kane's  apartments,  Gwyn 
told  him  all  that  he  had  heard  from  Bessie, 
to  which  Kane  listened  in  the  utmost  amaze- 
nient.  Many  circumstances  were  explained, 
yet  many  more  were  inexplicable  to  him  as 
yet.  Above  all,  he  could  not  understand  how 
it  was,  if  Bernal  Mordaunt  had  died  at  Mor- 
daunt  Manor,  that  he  could  have  written  from 
his  death-bed  in  Paris.  These  two  things 
seemed  irreconcilable,  nor  could  Gwyn  give 
him  any  satisfaction.  Soon,  however,  there 
were  other  things  mentioned  which  drew  all 
Kane's  thoughts  away  from  the  affairs  of  Inez. 
This  was  the  statement  that  the  remains  of 
Clara  had  been  exhumed,  and  had  been  taken 
to  Rome  for  burial ;  and  also  the  announce 
ment  that  Blake  had  gone  to  Rome,  and  had 
"  settled  down  in  that  place  for  good." 

Both  of  these  facts  were  to  him  of  over 
whelming  importance.  In  his  friendship  for 
Blake  he  rejoiced  to  learn  that  he  was  well, 
though  he  could  not  help  wondering  why  he 
had  remained  so  silent.  But  this  was  of  com 
parative  unimportance  in  view  of  the  astound- 
in^  news  about  the  remains  of  Clara. 

°  Kane's  feelings  about  his  lost  wife  have 
been  sufficiently  described.  It  was  to  be  near 
her  loved  remains  that  he  had  come  to  Pari: 
—it  was  for  this  sake  only  that  he  lived  here 
Other  places  would  have  been  preferable  tc 
him,  but  the  presence  here  of  Clara's  remains 
gave  to  Paris  an  interest  that  no  other  place 
could  have.  It  had  been  his  habit  to  pray  at 
stated  times  over  her  grave,  and  the  anni 
versary  of  that  awful  day  when  they  were 
separated  was  always  observed  by  him  witl 
fasting  and  prayer.  He  had  not  been  nea 
her  grave  since  that  night  of  the  "  apparition ' 
at  Pere-la-Chaise;  but  the  anniversary  wa 
not  far  distant,  and  he  would  have  to  go  there 
no  matter  what  might  be  his  feelings,  and  ob 
serve  the  usual  solemnities. 

Now  he  learned  to  his  amazement  wha 
had  happened.     This  fact  at  once  broke  int 
all  "the  even  tenor  of  his  life,  and  made  i 
necessary  for  him  to  make  some  change.   Th 
removal  of  those  precious  relics  destroyed  a 
motives  for  remaining  here.      Where  thos 
remains  were,  there  he  must  go.     The  state 
of  his  feelings  was  such  that  life  was  only 
tolerable  near  all  that  was  mortal  of  her  whom 


e  loved,  and  the  first  thought  that  he  had 
•hen  Rome  was  mentioned  was  that  he  must 
eave  Paris  and  go  there.  The  information 
hat  Kevin  Magrath,  and  Inez,  and  Bessie, 
were  all  going  there  to  "  pray  over  that  grave," 
nly  intensified  his  desires  to  do  the  same, 
nd  all  other  thoughts  became  indifferent  to 
1m. 

What  he  should  do  first  was  now  the 
question.  He  was  anxious  to  see  Kevin  Ma- 
;rath.  This  man's  character  had  undergone 
i  fresh  revolution  in  his  mind.  When  he 
had  first  seen  him,  he  had  formed  of  him  such 
an  opinion  that  he  seemed  a  sort  of  accusing 
witness,  an  avenger  of  blood,  a  relentless 
Nemesis.  After  hearing  the  story  of  Inez,  he 
iad  been  changed  into  a  remorseless  villain, 
a  dark  schemer  and  intriguer.  Now,  how 
ever,  he  appeared  once  more  in  the  former 
ight.  Whatever  might  be  the  mystery  that 
i-emained,  it  seemed  evident  to  Kane,  from 
Bessie's  words,  and  the  acts  of  herself  and 
Inez,  that  the  last  judgment  about  Kevin  Ma- 
grath  was  wrong.  It  seemed  now  as  though  he 
must  have  been  the  faithful  friend  of  Bernal 
Mordaunt  and  his  children;  a  just  man;  a 
tender-hearted  guardian ;  a  loyal  friend ;  one 
who  had  been  the  champion  of  unprotected 
innocence,  and  one,  too,  who  had  felt  merci 
ful  even  to  the  guilty,  whose  former  guilt  he 
had  resisted  and  denounced. 

Yet  the  prospect  of  meeting  with  this  man 
had  in  it  something  so  terrible  for  Kane  that 
he  shrunk  from  it.  For  Kevin  Magrath  once 
more  seemed  to  be  the  avenger  of  the  injured 
Clara.  He  could  not  help  recalling  his  look, 
his  attitude,  and  his  words,  during  that 
memorable  evening  in  London— those  awful 
words,  every  one  of  which  had  pierced  like  a 
stab  to  his  heart.  To  go  now  to  this  man 
would  be  to  expose  himself  to  a  repetition  of 
this  painful  scene,  to  receive  fresh  wounds, 
and  encounter  fresh  sufferings.  Yet  to  do  so 
was  necessary.  This  man  had  assisted  in  the 
removal  of  Clara.  He  himself  must  have 
touched  the  casket  that  held  that  precious 
treasure,  and  from  that  touch  the  man  him- 
self  seemed  now  to  Kane's  imagination  to 
have  acquired  a  kind  of  awful  sanctity.  To 
meet  him  would  be  more  painful  than  ever, 
but  it  was  necessary  in  order  to  obtain  accu 
rate  information  about  the  place  in  which  they 
had  laid  the  remains  of  his  lost  darling. 

Kane  therefore  yielded  to  this  necessity, 
and  that  evening  called  at  the  hotel  along 


BEFORE   HIS   JUDGE. 


191 


with  Gwyn.  Inez  and  Bessie  were  both  in 
the  room  waiting  for  them.  Kane  greeted 
Inez  with  affectionate  cordiality,  and  congrat 
ulated  her  most  sincerely  upon  the  favorable 
change  in  her  affairs.  But  his  thoughts  were 
so  occupied  with  the  chief  purpose  of  this 
visit  that  he  did  not  question  her  very  partic 
ularly,  and  the  conversation  took  a  general 
turn,  which  was  at  length  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  Kevin  Magrath. 

^Ile  looked  around  with  a  'beaming  smile, 
which  was  at  once  benevolent  and  paternal. 
Bessie  introduced  him  to  Gwyn.  He  shook 
hands  with  him  cordially  with  some  warm 
words  of  welcome,  and  then,  catching  sight 
of  Kane,  advanced  toward  him. 

"Mr.  Hellville— ah— Hellmuth,  sure  it's 
glad  I  am  to  see  ye  here !  It's  sorry  I  was 
the  last  time  I  saw  ye  that  ye  had  to  make 
yer  ajieus  before  the  evening  had  begun.  I 
hope  we  may  be  able  to-night  to  pass  the  time 
in  a  more  shui table  manner." 

Saying  this,  he  shook  hands  with  Kane 
very  warmly,  and  went  on  to  chat  with  Gwyn, 
and  Bessie,  and  Inez,  one  by  one,  in  the  easi 
est  and  pleasantest  way  in  the  world. 

"  There's  no  one  going  that  knows  Rome 
bettor  than  I  do,"  said  he,  in  reply  to  some 
remark    of    Bessie's    about    their   journey 
"  Don't  I  know  it  ?     Haven't  I  lived  there, 
off  and  on,  for  years  ?     Meself  has.     There 
isn't  a  cyardinal  of  the  holy  conclave  that  I 
don't  know,  in  and  out.     And  they're  a  fine 
body  of  min  intirely,  so  they  are,  but  it's  a 
pity  they're  so  many  of  thim  Italians.     In  a 
constichutional   kingdom,   as   Italy   now  is, 
there's  a  wonderful  chance  for  the  holy  father, 
if  he  only  knowed  how  to  avail  himself  of  it! 
If  they  only  wint  to  work  the  way  they  do  in 
Ireland  and  America,  they  could  howld  the 
distinies  of  Italy  and  of  the  wurruld  in  the 
hollows  of  their  hands.     But  they  don't  com- 
prihind,  and  they  won't,  till  another  ginera- 
tion  comes  along  that  grows  into  the  new  or 
der  of  things.     Ye   see,  what  I  always  tell 
them  is  this:  Ye  must  conforrum  more  to  the 
spirit  of  the  age.    It's  a  liberal  age  and  a  con 
stichutional  age.    Ye  must  be  liberal  and  con 
stichutional.     It's  no  use  excommunicating 
kings  and  imperors,  and  prime  ministers  and 
sinators.     Look  at  the  way  they  do  in  Amer 
ica.     They  take  possession  of  the  ballot-box 
and  thus  become  shupreme.     Go,  says  I,  into 
politics,  bald-headed !  Direct  the  votes  of  the 
people.     They're  all  yours.      Out  of  twinty 


millions  of  Italians  how  many  d'ye  think  ye 
have  on  yer  own  side  ?    There's  tin  million  fa- 
males.     Out  of  the  other  tin  million  min  five 
million  are  boys  who  are  all  under  the  con 
trol  of  their  mothers.     Out  of  the  remaining 
five  million  adult  min  four  million  are  adult 
pisints,  altogether  under  the  control  of  the 
priesthood,  and  riddy  to  vote  as  they  suggist. 
It  is  a  great  allowance  to  suppose  a  single 
million  as  belonging  to  the  Antipapal  or  Lib 
eral  party.     If  ye  wint  among  these,  ye'd  find 
numerous  ways  of  gaining  control  of  three- 
quarters  of  thim.     Me  own  opinion  is  that, 
out  of  the  twinty  millions  of  Italians,  there's 
only  two  hundred  thousand  min  who  can  be 
called  Liberals.    And  what  could  they  do? 
Get  universal  suffrage  and  the  ballot-box,  and 
ye'd  swamp  thim,  so  ye  would.   Ye  howld  the 
distinies  of  the  country  in  yer  power,  and  all 
ye've  got  to  do  is,  like  children  of  Israel  at 
the  Red  Sea,  whin  Moses  came  to  thirn  as  I 
do  to  you  and  said,  as  I  now  say,  *  Go  for 
ward  ; '  or,  like  the  same,  when  Joshua  the 
son  of  Nun  said  to  them,  <  Behold  the  prom 
ised  land  !     Go  ye  up  and  possess  it ! '  " 

From  such  high  themes  as  these  the  con 
versation  gradually  faded  away— Gwyn  ab 
sorbing  Bessie,  and  Kevin  Magrath  alternately 
addressing  Inez  and  Kane.  But  Inez  evi 
dently  took  no  interest  in  what  she  consid 
ered  politics,  and  thus  Kane  was  left  as  the 
only  collocutor  or  listener  or  whatever  else  he 
may  have  been.  Collocutor  he  certainly  was 
not,  however,  for  he  simply  listened,  not  at 
tending  particularly  to  Kevin  Magrath's  re 
marks,  but  rather  thinking  about  the  best 
way  of  seeing  him  alone,  so  as  to  ask  him 
about  those  things  which  now  were  upper- 
most  in  his  mind.  At  length  Inez  left  the 
room.  Gwyn  and  Bessie  were  taken  up  with 
each  other,  and  then  it  was  that  Kane  made 
known  his  feelings, 

"  I  should  like  very  much,"  said  he,  "  to 
ask  you  about  some  things  that  are  of  impor 
tance  to  me.  Can  I  see  you  alone  for  a  few 
moments?" 

Kevin  Magrath  smiled  graciously. 
"  With  the  greatest  plisure  in  life,"  said 
he.     "  Come  along  with  me  to  me  own  room, 
and  we'll  make  a  night  of  it." 

With  these  words  he  rose  and  led  the 
way  along  the  corridor  to  a  room  at  the  end 
of  it.  Entering  this,  Kane  found  himself  in 
a  large  and  elegantly. furnished  apartment, 
opening  into  a  bedroom.  On  a  sideboard 


193 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


were  bottles,  decanters,  and  tobacco-boxes. 
On  the  table  was  a  meerschaum -pipe,  a  box 
of  cigars,  and  the  latest  Galignani. 

Kevin  Magrath  rolled  up  an  easy-chair  be 
side  the  table. 

"Make  yerself  comfortable,"  said  he, 
cheerily.  "Ye'll  take  something  warrum, 
won't  ye— and  a  pipe  or  so  ?  I've  whiskey 
here  by  me,  Scotch  or  Irish— '  Ccelum  non 
animum  mutant,'  ye  know ;  *  qui  trans  mare 
currunt ; '  and,  for  my  part,  I  carry  a  bottle 
of  Irish  whiskey  with  me  wherever  I  go — and 
Scotch  too,  for  that  matter;  though,  on  the 
whole,  I  object  to  Scotch  whiskey,  for  it  sa 
vors  somewhat  of  Calvinism.  Howandiver, 
ye'll  take  one  or  the  other." 
Kane  mildly  suggested  Irish. 
Kevin  Magrath  smiled. 
"It's  charrumed  I  am  with  yer  taste,  and 
I  take  it  as  a  complimint  to  me  country,"  and 
he  poured  out  a  wineglassful,  which  he  handed 
to  Kane,  after  which  he  poured  out  another 
for  himself.  "  Here,"  said  he,  "  lifting  it  to 
his  lips,  "  here  is  a  libation  which  I've  pow 
ered  out  in  honor  of  old  Ireland,  let's  drink 
to  the  first  flower  of  the  earth  and  first  gim 
of  the  sea." 

They  both  drank  solemnly. 
"And  now,"  said  Kevin  Magrath,  "hav 
ing  performed  the  first  juties  of  hospitality, 
I'm  altogether  at  your  service.    But  won't  ye 
take  a  pipe  or  a  cigar?  " 
Kane  declined. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  he,  drawing  a  long 
breath,  "  my  name  is  not  Hellmuth." 

"  The  divil  it  isn't !  "  said  Kevin  Magrath. 
"  Circumstances,"  said  Kane,  "  made  it 
necessary  for  me  on  my  former  visit  to  take 
that  name.  At  present  there  is  no  such  ne 
cessity.  I  have  dropped  it,  and  have  taken 
my  own  again." 

"  'Deed,  thin,"  said  Kevin  Magrath,  "I  hope 
that  yer  circumstances,  whativer  they  are,  have 
changed  for  the  better." 

Kane  sighed,  and  regarded  the  other 
gloomily  and  fixedly. 

"  My  name,"  said  he,  is  a  familiar  one  to 
you.  It  is  Kane  Ruthven.  I  am  the  man 
that  married  Clara  Mordaunt,  and  caused  her 
death.  I  wish  to  talk  to  you  about  her.  I 
wish  also  to  show  you  that,  for  any  evil  which 
I  did  to  her  whom  I  loved,  I  have  atoned  for 
by  life-long  remorse." 

At  the  first  mention  of  this  name  a  sudden 
and  astonishing  change  came  over  Kevin  Ma 


grath.     His  easy,  placid  smile  passed  away 
a  dark  frown  came  over  his  brows,  he  pushed 
his  chair  back  and  started  to  his  feet,  and  re 
garded  Kane  with  a  black,  scowling  face. 
"  You  ! "  he  cried. 
"  Yes,"  said  Kane. 

Kevin  Magrath  looked  at  him  for  some 
time  with  the  same  expression,  but  gradually 
the  severity  of  his  features  began  to  relax. 

"  I've  prayed,"  said  he,  slowly,  "  and  I've 
longed  for  tlie  time  to  come  whin  I  could  see 
ye  face  to  face ;  and  thin  again  I've  longed 
and  I've  prayed  that  I  might  never  see  ye. 
I've  prayed  to  see  ye  that  I  might  have  ven- 
gince  for  Clara's  bitter  wrongs,  for  her  be 
trayal,  for  her  broken  heart,  for  her  death, 
for  the  dishonor  of  a  noble  name,  and  the 
shame  of  a  lofty  lineage ;  and  I've  prayed  not 
to  see  ye,  so  that  I  might  niver  have  another 
man's  blood  on  my  hands,  for  I  felt  sure  that, 
f  I  ever  did  see  ye,  that  momint  I'd  have  yer 
heart's-blood.  But,  somehow,"  continued  he, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  "somehow  —  now 
that  I  do  see  ye  face  to  face — sure,  I  don't 
know  how  it  is  at  all  at  all,  but  the  desire  for 
bloody  vingince  has  gone  out  of  me;  and  ye 
seem  to  have  the  face  of  a  man  that's  paid 
the  full  pinalty  already  of  any  wrong  ye've  iver 
done,  so  ye  do.  And  whither  it  is  this  that's 
the  matther,  or  whither  it  is  that  I  can't  rise 
against  the  man  that's  drunk  with  me — but 
sure  to  glory  I'm  changed — and  so  I  say  to 
you,  Kane  Kuthven,  in  the  name  of  God, 
what  is  it  that  ye  seek  me  for,  and  have  ye 
any  thing  to  say  for  yerself  in  regyard  to  yer 
dealings  with  the  young  gyerrul  that  ye— de 
stroyed  ?  " 

Kevin  Magrath's  manner  was  most  im 
pressive.  It  was  that  of  a  lofty,  rigid,  im 
partial  judge,  who  will  exact  strict  justice,  yet 
is  not  altogether  disinclined  to  mercy.  Kane 
sustained  his  gaze  with  tranquillity,  and  looked 
at  him  with  a  solemn,  sombre  brow.  When 
he  had  finished,  he  said : 

"You  are  mistaken  about  me  in  many 
ways,  and,  when  you  hear  what  I  have  to 
say,  you  will  have  a  less  harsh  opinion  of  me 
than  the  one  you  expressed  in  London." 

"  Go  on,  then ;  let  me  hear  what  you  have 
to  say,  for  it's  meself  that  would  be  the  proud 
man  if  ye  could  clear  yerself  of  any  of  the 
guilt  that's  seemed  to  be  attached  to  ye." 

Kane  now  proceeded  to  tell  his  whole 
story.  He  told  it  frankly  and  fully,  heaping 
blame  upon  himself  lavishly,  yet  clearing 


BEFORE  HIS  JUDGE. 


193 


himself  of  all  those  worse  charges  which  Ma- 
grath  had  uttered  against  him. 

After  it  was  over,  Magrath  remained  mus 
ing  for  a  long  time. 

"  Sure,"  said  he,  at  last,  "  there  was  vil- 
lany,  though  not  with  you.  Your  brother 
was  hard,  but  it  was  my  poor  frind  Hennigar 
Wy  verne  that  was  the  arch-traitor  and  rogue. 
But  how  in  the  worruld  did  it  happen  that 
Clara  did  not  know  herself  that  she  was  the 
daughter  of  Bernal  Mordaunt,  and  heiress  of 
Mordaunt  Manor  ?  " 

"  I  can't  account  for  it  at  all." 
"  I've  heard  it  stated  on  iminint  authority," 
said  Magrath,  "  that  a  boy  who  leaves  his 
home,  or  is  taken  from  his  home,  at  the  age  of 
tin,  and  is  thrown  into  a  foreign  land  among 
strangers,  will  in  five  years  forget  his  own 
name,  his  father's  name,  and  his  native  lan 
guage.  I  nivir  believed  it  before,  but  now 
this  looks  like  it.  Clara  lost  her  home  and 
her  father  at  tin  ;  she  had  not  lived  regularly 
at  Mordaunt  Manor  either,  and  was  sent  into 
France ;  and  thus  it  has  happened  that  she 
forgot  in  a  few  years  the  most  important 
things." 

"  It  must  have  been  so,"  said  Kane.  "  She 
knew  her  name,  but  had  no  recollection  of 
Mordaunt  Manor — at  least  she  said  nothing 
about  it — and  she  certainly  had  no  idea  that 
she  was  an  heiress." 

Another  long  silence  followed. 
"  Kane  Ruthven,"  said  Magrath,  at  last— 
"  or  perhaps  I  ought  to  say  Sir  Kane— what 
you  have  said  clears  you  completely  and  ut 
terly  from  the  suspicions  which  I  had  forrumed 
about  you.  You  have  not  been  guilty,  as  I 
now  see,  of  any  thing  worse  than  careless 
ness,  or  thoughtlessness.  For  that  you  have 
suffered  enough.  I  must  say  that  me  con 
science  condimns  shuicide,  and  in  that  act  ye 
were  clearly  wrong ;  it  was  unnecessary ;  she 
would  have  drifted  home  or  into  my  hands, 
for  I  was  close  upon  her  track  at  that  very 
time.  Howandiver,  what's  done  can't  be  un 
done,  and,  as  ye're  an  innocint  and  a  suffering 
man,  why — there's  my  hand." 

With  this  he  reached  out  his  hand.  Kane 
took  it,  and  Magrath  shook  it  heartily. 

"I  have  understood,"  said  Kane,  anx 
iously  and  hesitatingly,  "  that — that  she — she 
was  removed  from  the  cemetery." 

"  It  was  her  father's  wish,"  said  Magrath-, 
"  that  she  should  be  buried  beside  her  mother 
in  Rome." 


"  She  is  now  in  Rome,  then  ?  " 
"Yes,  with  her  mother;  and  the  other 
two  daughters,  Inez  and  Bessie,  are  going  to 
pray  over  the  graves  for  the  repose  of  the 
souls  of  their  mother  and  their  sister." 

"I  should  think  that  they  would  have 
been  taken  rather  to  Mordaunt  Manor." 

"  It  was  Bernal  Mordaunt's  doing,"  said 
Magrath.  "  But  they  are  all  united,  for  Bes 
sie's  filial  piety  has  accomplished  one  of  the 
last  wishes  of  her  father  ;  and,  while  she  was 
living  at  Ruthven  Towers,  her  father's  remains 
were  exhumed  and  taken  to  Rome." 

Kane  hardly  heard  these  last  words.  Hig 
mind  was  occupied  exclusively  with  thoughts 
of  Clara.  Magrath's  information  was  con 
clusive.  It  was  what  he  had  wished  to  know, 
and  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  learned. 
About  the  affairs  of  Inez  he  thought  no  more. 
She  was  safe  now  with  loving  friends;  the 
mysterious  circumstances  about  her  late  im 
prisonment  were  no  doubt  satisfactorily  ex 
plained,  and  he  himself  had  no  further  inter 
est  in  the  matter. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction,  how 
ever,  that  Kane  reflected  on  the  formal  ac 
quittal  which  Magrath  had  given  him  of  evil 
acts.  For  Magrath  was  now  to  him  a  stern, 
a  just,  and  a  wise  judge,  from  whom  a  dec 
laration  of  this  sort  was  valuable,  indeed. 
There  was  at  the  conclusion  of  this  interview 
a  deeper  solemnity  than  usual  in  the  manner 
of  each  of  them,  and  Magrath  did  not  press 
him  to  stay,  or  ask  him  again  to  take  a  drink. 
That  night  Gwyn  bade  Bessie  farewell. 
She  was  to  start  with  Inez  early  on  the  fol 
lowing  morning  for  Rome. 

"  You'll  come  on  soon,  Gwynnie  darling," 
said  she,  tenderly. 

"Immediately,  of  course,  Bessie  dearest." 
"  And  you'll  bring  dear  Kane  ?  " 
"  Of  course." 

Bessie  looked  at  him  earnestly. 
"  We're  beggars  now,  so  we  are,  Gwynnie 
dear,  but  I  love  you,  and  we  can  be  as  happy 
in  our  poverty  as  ever  we  were  in  our  wealth, 
so  we  can." 

Gwyn  pressed  her  to  his  heart  and  left. 
As  he  walked  away,  his  heart  was  full  of 
bitterness.  Kane  and  Inez  seemed  now  like 
interlopers,  who  had  come  between  him  and 
his  darling,  casting  her  down  from  the  wealth 
and  luxury  with  Which  he  had  thought  he  had 
endowed  her.  Kane  again  had  been  the  in. 
nocent  cause  of  this  foul  wrong  which  he  had 


198 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


trace  his  steps,  but  rather  to  go  on  till  he 
should  find  signs  of  some  way  of  escape. 

And  now  his  active  mind  busied  itself,  as 
he  went  on,  in  the  endeavor  to  discover  what 
direction  might  give  the  best  promise  of  es 
cape.  In  spite  of  his  conviction  that  the 
whole  of  O'Rourke's  story  was  a  fiction,  he 
still  thought  that  some  portions  of  it  might 
give  him  information;  and,  as  his  description 
of  portions  of  the  paths  had  been  true,  so 
also  might  his  assertions  about  the  general 
direction  of  this  path  on  which  he  was  going. 
O'Rourke's  assertion  had  been  that  it  ran 
toward  the  Palatine  Hill,  and  the  whole  point 
of  his  narrative  had  consisted  in  the  theory 
that  it  actually  passed  under  the  Palatine, 
and  was  possibly  connected  with  some  of  the 
ancient  vaults.  If  this  were  so,  it  seemed  to 
Blake  that  an  opening  might  be  found  through 
these  vaults,  aud  that  thus  his  escape  could 
be  made. 

With  this  in  his  mind,  Blake  concluded  to 
go  on  as  rapidly  as  possible  along  that  very 
path  by  which  O'Rourke  had  tried  to  lead 
him  to  destruction.  In  a  short  time  he  came 
to  that  place  which  O'Rourke  had  called  the 
Painted  Chamber,  and,  hurrying  on  quickly, 
yet  cautiously,  he  soon  reached  the  opening 
into  the  lower  passage-way.  Down  this  he 
descended,  and,  as  he  passed  down,  his  eyes 
caught  sight  of  those  holes  in  the  wall  which 
he  had  so  laboriously  made.  But  it  was  not 
a  time  to  yield  to  emotions  of  any  sort,  or  to 
feed  his  melancholy  in  any  way. 

He  now  walked  on  very  cautiously,  for  he 
was  afraid  of  openings  in  the  floor,  and  it  was 
necessary  to  look  well  to  his  path.  He  ex 
pected  before  long  to  reach  some  larger 
chamber,  which  might  mark  the  neighbor 
hood  of  the  Palatine  Hill.  For  O'Rourke's 
story  had  still  so  strong  a  hold  of  his  mind 
that  he  fully  expected  to  see  that  place  which 
had  been  called  the  "Treasure  Chamber," 
though  of  course  he  had  not  the  slightest 
expectation  of  finding  any  treasure,  nor  was 
there  any  possibility  that  one  in  his  desper 
ate  circumstances  should  feel  the  slightest 
wish  to  find  it. 

As  he  went  on,  he  found  that  the  cross- 
passages  were  much  less  numerous  than  they 
had  been.  The  path  also  along  which  be 
went  had  but  a  slight  deflection  from  a 
straight  course — so  slight,  indeed,  that  it  was 
the  same  to  Blake  as  a  straight  line.  No 
pitfalls  lay  in  his  way,  and  it  seemed  to  him 


hat  he  had  reached  the  lowest  level  on  which 
the  Catacombs  had  been  made. 

At  length  he  had  walked  on  so  far  that  ha 
began  to  hesitate.  It  was  time  for  him  to 
iave  reached  that  chamber  under  the  Pala- 
;ine,  but  he  had  found  nothing  in  his  way 
which,  by  any  stretch  of  fancy,  could  be  called 
a  chamber.  It  had  been  a  narrow  passage 
way,  preserving  the  same  dimensions  all 
along,  and  the  characteristic  features  which 
distinguished  all  the  passages  here.  He 
seemed  to  be  wandering  on  interminably, 
and  at  length  the  vague  hope  which  thus  far 
had  encouraged  him,  or  at  least  led  him  on, 
now  faded  away  altogether,  and  he  walked 
on  slowly,  merely  because  it  seemed  better 
than  standing  still. 

There  was  no  treasure,  that  he  already 
knew;  but  he  had  now  found  out  that  there 
was  no  chamber  either,  no  connection  with 
any  ancient  vaults,  and  possibly  no  approach 
to  the  neighborhood  of  the  Palatine.  That 
part  of  O'Rourke's  statements  seemed  now 
evidently  thrown  in  to  stimulate  the  fancy  by 
giving  plausible  grounds  to  his  theory  of  the 
treasure  of  the  Caesars.  And  where,  now, 
should  he  go  ?  In  what  direction  should  he 
turn?  Might  he  not  be  wandering  farther 
and  farther  away  from  the  path  of  safety  ? 

With  such  thoughts  as  these,  amid  which 
not  one  ray  of  hope  presented  itself,  Blake 
wandered  on  more  and  more  slowly.  At 
length  he  reached  a  cross-passage,  and  here 
he  came  to  a  full  stop.  To  go  on  any  farther 
along  this  passage-way  seemed  useless.  Here, 
too,  his  hesitation  was  succeeded  by  a  dis 
covery  that  promised  the  very  worst.  Already 
he  had  noticed  that  the  lamp  had  become 
dimmer,  but  he  had  refused  to  believe  it,  and 
had  tried  to  think  that  it  was  the  hardening 
of  the  wick,  but  now  the  fact  could  no  longer 
be  concealed.  Even  as  he  stood  here  for  a 
few  moments,  that  light — which  to  him  was 
symbolical  of  the  light  of  life— faded  more 
and  more.  With  a  despairing  hand  he  opened 
the  lantern,  and  picked  off  the  top  of  the  wick 
that  had  caked  over,  feeling  all  the  while  the 
utter  hopelessness  of  such  an  act,  for  how 
could  that  prolong  in  any  degree  the  life  of 
the  dying  flame?  It  did  not  prolong  it;  the 
flame  died  down  lower  and  lower. 

Upon  this,  Blake,  actuated  by  a  sudden 
impulse,  blew  it  out.  He  thought  that  the 
small  quantity  of  oil  yet  remaining  might 
better  be  preserved  for  some  extreme  m*- 


DE   PROFUNDIS    CLAMAVI. 


19? 


ment  of  his  life,  when  a  ray  of  light  for  bu 
a  minute  might  be  of  far  more  value  than 
now.  So  he  extinguished  it  for  the  present 
and  preserved  the  minute  or  so  of  light  thai 
might  yet  be  given  for  future  need. 

All  was  no\v  darkness,  dense,  impenetra 
ble,  appalling.  His  long  search  had  resulted 
in  absolutely  nothing,  and  he  began  to  think 
that  it  would  have  been  better  for  him  at  this 
moment  if  be  had  never  set  out  upon  it.  It 
seemed  now  as  though  he  might  have  effected 
something,  had  he  devoted  all  this  time  tow 
ard  the  task  of  moving  away  some  portion 
of  the  stony  barrier  which  O'Rourke  had  set 
up.  A  little  reflection,  however,  showed  him 
that  this  would  have  been  impossible.  He 
recollected  the  immense  masses  that  closed 
up  the  opening,  and  considered  that  behind 
these  were  other  masses.  No;  escape  by 
that  way  was  impossible. 

He  was  at  the  intersection  of  two  paths, 
and  he  had  no  idea  now  in  what  direction  it 
might  be  best  to  go.  The  darkness  was  tre 
mendous.  The  silence,  also,  that  reigned  all 
around,  was  almost  equally  impressive.  Now, 
as  he  listened,  that  silence  was  broken  by 
sounds  which  to  him  were  more  terrible  even 
than  the  silence.  They  showed  the  presence 
of  those  ravenous  foes  who  had  held  aloof 
during  his  progress  with  the  light,  but  who 
now,  while  he  stood  in  darkness,  prepared  to 
attack  him.  It  was  their  hour,  and  they 
seemed  to  know  it.  From  afar  came  the 
sound  of  their  advance,  the  movement  of 
rapid,  pattering  feet,  the  hurry  of  abominable 
things  past  him,  the  touch  of  horrible  objects 
that  sent  a  shudder  through  him.  Since  he 
had  descended  to  this  lower  level,  he  had 
seen  nothing  of  them,  and  in  his  other  cares 
had  forgotten  them.  Now  they  made  their 
presence  felt  and  feared.  They  came  up  from 
the  passage-way  on  his  right.  He  could  tell 
by  the  sounds  that  they  were  very  numerous ; 
he  could  feel  that  they  were  very  bold. 

To  stand  still  there  was  impossible ;  to  do 
so  would  simply  be  to  make  an  attack  certain. 
Once  he  struck  a  match,  and  the  flash  of  the 
light  revealed  a  sight  so  abhorrent  that  he 
was  glad  to  have  the  darkness  shut  it  out 
again— a  multitude  of  eager,  hungry  eyes, 
from  the  ravenous  little  monsters  that  shrunk 
back  at  the  sudden  blaze,  but  were  ready  at 
any  moment  to  spring. 

He  must  move,  for  movement  was  his  only 
safety.  The  narrowness  of  the  passage  fa 


vored  him,  for  he  could  not  be  surrounded ; 
he  might  possibly  drive  them  before  him.  To 
move  along  this  passage,  by  which  they  were 
advancing  upon  him,  was  necessary.  Perhaps, 
also,  it  might  be  best.  These  animals  must 
have  some  communication  with  the  outer 
world,  and  it  might  possibly  be  found  in  this 
direction.  This  way,  then,  seemed  toThiin  to 
be  by  far  the  most  promising,  or,  rather,  to 
be  the  one  which  had  less  of  despair.  He 
could  not  help  wondering  why  the  rats  had 
not  appeared  when  O'Rourke  was  with  him. 
Could  it  have  been  the  greater  light  or  noise 
that  deterred  them,  or  the  sound  of  human 
voices  ? 

No  sooner  had  Blake  thought  of  this  than 
he  resolved  to  break  the  silence  himself,  and 
to  use  his  own  voice  against  them,  hoping 
that  the  unusual  sound  might  alarm  them. 
Already  they  were  leaping  up  his  legs.  He 
swung  his  ladder  around,  and  advanced,  push 
ing  it  before  him,  and  wriggling  it  backward 
and  forward.  This  was  partly  to  drive  the 
rats  before  him,  and  partly  to  feel  his  path- 
way,  so  as  to  guard  against  openings.  Thus 
he  set  forth,  and  resumed  his  journey  in  the 
dark. 

But  not  in  silence.  lie  was  to  try  the 
effect  of  a  human  voice  over  his  assailants. 
But  with  what  words  should  he  speak,  what 
cry  should  he  give  there,  commensurate  with 
that  appalling  gloom,  that  terrible  silence, 
these  abhorrent  enemies  ?  No  common  words, 
no  words  of  every-day  speech,  were  possible. 
Where  should  he  find  words  which  might  at 
once  be  a  weapon  against  the  enemy  an«l  at 
the  same  time  be  concordant  with  the  anguish 
of  his  soul  ?  No  words  of  his  could  do  this. 
He  would  have  to  make  use  of  other  words. 
Back  went  his  thoughts  to  words  heard  in 
years  past — the  solemn  and  sublime  words  of 
the  services  of  his  Church,  heard  in  chihl- 
ood  and  boyhood,  and  remembered,  though 
of  late  neglected  and  despised.  In  his  an 
guish  his  soul  caught  up  a  cry  of  anguish — 
the  cry  of  despairing  souls  in  all  ages,  which 
never  sounded  forth  from  a  more  despairing 
soul,  and  never  amid  more  terrific  surround, 
ngs,  than  when  Blake,  wandering  wildly  on, 
jurst  forth : 

"  De  profimdis  clamavi  ad  te,  Domine  ;  Do- 
mine,  exaudi  vocem  meam. 

"  Fiant  aures  tnce  intendentts  in  vocem  de> 
precationis  mece." 

Nor  was  this  the  first  time  that  this  cry 


198 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


had  gone  forth,  in  Latin,  in  Greek,  or  in  He 
brew,  from  despairing  souls  in  the  Catacombs 
of  Rome. 


CHAPTER  XLYIII. 

BACK  TO   LIFE. 

THE  loud  and  prolonged  cries  of  Blake 
proved  more  efficacious  than  any  active  ef 
forts.'  There  seemed  something  in  the  sound 
of  this  human  voice  which  struck  terror  to 
the  fierce  assailants  by  whom  he  was  threat 
ened;  and  though  but  a  short  time  before 
they  had  been  swarming  near  and  leaping  up 
against  him,  yet  no  sooner  had  the  first  words 
of  his  cry  pealed  forth,  than  they  started 
back  as  though  terrified,  and  finally  retreated 
far  away.  There  was  a  mournful  satisfaction 
in  having  been  so  far  successful,  but  none  the 
less  there  remained  in  his  soul  a  feeling  which 
was  now  one  of  unalterable  despair.  Though 
for  the  present  his  enemies  had  fled,  yet  he 
did  not  cease  his  cries  utterly,  but  from  time 
to  time  gave  utterance  to  them,  so  that  what 
ever  power  they  had  might  be  made  use  of. 

He  still  walked  on,  pushing  his  ladder 
along  the  floor  before  him,  and  moving  it  as 
he  pushed  it  so  as  to  test  the  floor,  and  guard 
against  the  danger  of  openings  into  lower  re 
gions.  He  still  carried  the  lantern  whick 
contained  its  few  drops  of  oil  as  a  last  resort 
when  some  supreme  crisis  should  arrive  and 
light  be  needed.  Thus  he  went  on,  nor  did 
he  forget  that  faint  encouragement  which  he 
had  gathered  before  he  began  this  last  march, 
by  the  fact  that  the  rats  had  emerged  from 
this  direction,  and  might  possibly  have  some 
communication  here  with  the  outer  world. 
There  was  now  nothing  better  for  him  than 
to  move  on,  and  he  was  resolved-  to  move  on 
till  he  died. 

He  had  not  gone  far,  after  all.  It  was  not 
long  since  he  had  left  the  place  where  his 
lamp  had  failed  him;  he  had  walked  very 
slowly  and  very  cautiously,  for  in  that  dark 
ness  any  rapid  progress  was  utterly  out  of  the 
question.  .He  had  to  step  slowly  and  cau 
tiously,  feeling  his  way  most  carefully,  first 
with  the  ladder,  then  with  his  foot,  testing  the 
ground  before  him,  first  with  his  toe  before 
daring  to  plant  himself  firmly,  and  advancing 
only  a  few  inches  at  a  time.  In  this  way  he 
accomplished  about  twenty  or  thirty  yards, 


when  all  of  a  sudden  he  became  aware  of 
something  which  was  so  amazing  that  he 
stood  still  as  though  paralyzed,  with  his  eyes 
fastened  upon  that  something  before  him. 

That  something  had  no  very  definable 
shape  or  form,  yet  the  very  fact  that  there 
was  something  before  him,  upon  which  his 
eyes  could  fix  themselves,  was  of  itself  suffi 
cient  to  account  for  the  great  rush  of  con 
tending  emotions  which  now  succeeded  to  his 
despair,  and  overwhelmed  him.  There  was 
before  him — before  his  eyes — a  visible  some 
thing  ;  dim,  obscure,  yet  appreciable  to  the 
sense  of  vision,  and  it  was  not  far  away.  It 
was  a  dull  and  barely  perceptible  light — so 
dim  that  it  could  scarce  be  called  light,  and 
yet  it  was  light,  light  positive  and  unmistak 
able — light,  too,  from  no  lamp,  but  from  the 
great  external  ocean  of  light  which  he  had  so 
yearned  to  reach,  and  which  now  seemed  to 
send  forth  this  faint  stream  to  beckon  him 
onward,  and  to  inspire  him  with  hope  and  joy 
and  life. 

As  he  stood  there  motionless  for  a  time, 
of  which  he  took  no  account,  that  light  grew 
perceptibly  brighter,  and  every  moment 
brought  a  fresher  and  a  sweeter  assurance  to 
his  soul  that  there  was  no  mistake,  that  his 
wanderings  had  led  him  in  the  right  direc 
tion;  that  there  was  some  opening  here 
through  which  came  the  light  of  the  external 
W0rld — the  world  of  life.  At  length  the  as 
surance  grew  so  strong  that  it  broke  down 
his  inaction,  and  he  started  forward  to  reach 
it,  still  moving  cautiously,  and  feeling  his  way 
as  before.  He  saw  as  he  slowly  advanced  an 
irregular  aperture  gradually  taking  form,  and 
through  this  penetrated  that  dim  yet  ever-in 
creasing  light  which  had  met  his  eyes.  Every 
minute  that  outline  became  more  clearly  de 
fined,  until  at  length  there  was  more  than  an 
outline.  He  saw  light  and  shade,  and  the 
rough  surface  of  stone,  and  a  lighter  space 
beyond  the  opening.  The  intense  darkness 
from  which  he  had  just  emerged  had  given 
to  his  eyes  a  greater  power  than  usual  of  dis 
cerning  objects  illumined  by  this  faint  light; 
and,  faint  though  it  was,  it  brightened  more 
and  more,  just  as  though  the  external  source 
of  this  light  was  itself  increasing  in  bright 
ness.  To  Blake  it  seemed  as  if  the  sun  was, 
or  might  be,  rising. in  that  outer  world;  and 
the  increasing  light  which  he  saw  might  be 
the  sign  of  that  gathering  dawn. 

At  length  he  reached  the  place,  and  stood 


BACK   TO   LIFE. 


199 


for  a  moment  scarcely  able  to  believe  ia  the 
reality  of  his  good  fortune.  It  was  an  open 
ing  into  a  space  beyond,  about  three  feet  long 
and  two  feet  high,  formed  by  the  removal  of 
some  blocks  of  stone.  The  space  beyond  was 
an  arched  passage-way  constructed  of  enor 
mous  blocks  of  stone,  about  six  feet  in  height, 
and  much  wider  than  the  passages  of  the 
Catacombs.  At  the  bottom  water  was  flow 
ing  along.  Thrusting  his  head  farther  through, 
he  looked  up  and  down.  In  the  one  direction 
all  was  dark,  but  in  the  other,  at  no  very 
great  distance,  there  appeared  the  glad  outer 
world,  over  which  was  brightening  the  morn 
ing  sky,  with  fields  and  houses  reddening  un 
der  the  flush  of  dawn. 

He  remained  here  some  time,  drinking  in 
great  waves  of  this  ever-increasing  light  with 
something  like  adoration,  quaffing  it  like  one 
intoxicated,  hardly  able  to  satisfy  himself,  but 
giving  himself  up  altogether  to  the  ecstasy 
of  the  moment.  And  what  was  this  place, 
he  wondered,  upon  which  he  had  thus  so 
strangely  stumbled  ?  What  was  this  archway 
of  Cyclopean  stones,  hoar  with  age,  with  its 
floor  filled  with  rubbish,  and  running  water 
passing  on  ?  A  broken  fragment  of  one 
of  the  massive  rocks  composing  its  sides 
had  been  removed,  and  formed  the  opening 
which  had  given  him  life  once  more.  Doubt 
less,  this  fragment  had  been  removed  in  past 
ages  by  fugitives  who  thus  were  able  to  es 
cape  pursuit  by  plunging  into  the  Catacombs. 
Perhaps  those  who  removed  the  broken  frag 
ment  cut  the  passage-way  along  to  those  far 
ther  in ;  or  perhaps  it  was  the  work  of  some 
of  the  early  Christians  in  the  ages  of  persecu 
tion,  and  this  may  have  been  one  of  the  se 
cret  and  unsuspected  entrances  to  the  Subter 
ranean  hiding-places.  But  what  was  this  an 
cient  arch  itself?  Xo  place  of  graves — no 
passage-way  among  many  others  like  it,  was 
thrs.  It  was  unique.  It  stood  alone;  and 
Blake,  though  a  stranger  in  Rome,  had  suffi 
cient  knowledge  of  its  most  remarkable  mon 
uments  to  feel  sure  that  this  place  upon  which 
he  had  so  strangely  come  was  no  other  than 
the  most  venerable,  the  most  ancient,  and  in 
many  respects  the  most  wonderful,  of  all  the 
works  of  ancient  Rome— the  Cloaca  Maxima. 
But  this  was  not  a  time  for  wonder,  or 
for  curiosity,  or  for  antiquarian  researches. 
Death  lay  behind  him.  Light  and  life  lay 
before  him.  The  horrors  through  which  he 
had  passed  had  produced  their  natural  effect 


in  extreme  prostration  of  mind  and  body. 
Some  rest,  some  breathing-space,  was  re 
quired  ;  but,  after  that,  if  he  would  save  him 
self,  if  he  would  not  perish  within  the  very 
reach  of  safety,  he  must  hurry  on. 

He  crawled  through  and  stood  in  the 
Cloaca  Maxima.  It  ran  before  him,  leading 
him  to  the  outer  world,  giving  him  light  and 
life.  The  treasure  of  the  Roman  emperors, 
which  he  had  dreamed  of  finding,  had  been 
missed ;  but  he  had  found  the  work  of  the 
Roman  kings,  which  to  him,  in  his  despair, 
was  worth  infinitely  more.  He  stood  in  ooze 
and  slime,  over  which  passed  running  water, 
which  flowed  to  the  Tiber,  Blake  did  not 
wait,  but  hurried  onward  as  fast  as  he  could. 
The  brightening  scene,  visible  in  the  distance, 
and  growing  more  brilliant  every  moment, 
drew  him  onward,  and  the  terrors  behind 
him  drove  him  forward ;  so  that  this  com 
bined  attraction  and  repulsion  gave  him  ad 
ditional  strength  and  speed.  He  hurried  on, 
and  still  on,  and  at  length  reached  the  mouth 
of  the  arched  passage.  Here  he  saw  sloping 
banks  on  either  side  ;  and,  clambering  up  the 
bank  on  the  right,  he  stood  for  a  moment-to 
rest  himself. 

In  that  brief  period  of  rest  he  had  no  eyes 
and  no  thoughts  for  the  scene  around,  though 
for  some  that  scene  would  have  possessed  a 
charm  greater  than  any  other  that  may  be 
met  with  in  all  the  world.  He  did  not  notice 
the  Aventine,  the  Capitoline,  the  Janiculum, 
in  the  distance,  and  the  yellow  Tiber  that 
flowed  between.  He  was  thinking  only  of 
rest,  of  refuge.  He  longed  for  some  sort  of 
home,  some  place  where  he  might  lie  down 
and  sleep.  He  only  noticed  that  it  was  the 
morning  of  a  new  day,  and  consequently  per 
ceived  that  he  must  have  spent  a  whole  night 
in  the  Catacombs. 

In  that  night  what  horrors  had  he  not 
endured !  As  he  stood  there  panting  for 
breath,  the  recollection  came  over  him  of  all 
that  he  had  passed  through.  lie  thought  of 
that  first  moment  when  he  discovered  that  he 
was  alone  ;  that  the  ladder  and  the  clew  were 
gone ;  that  he  had  been  betrayed.  He  thought 
of  his  despair,  followed  by  his  efforts  to  es- 
ape ;  his  long  labor  at  the  walls  of  stone ; 
his  ascent  to  the  upper  floor  and  pursuit  of 
O'Rourke;  his  arrival  at  the  opening,  and 
his  discovery  that  it  was  walled  up.  Then 
le  heard  the  rattle  of  stones,  and  the  voice 
of  his  betrayer,  saying,  "  BlaJce  Wyverne,  fare- 


200 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


well  forever  !"  He  recalled  bis  fainting-fit, 
his  recovery,  and  his  renewal  of  his  efforts  to 
escape;  and  then  followed  that  long  horror, 
that  night  of  agony,  in  which  he  had  wan 
dered  along  that  terrific  pathway,  with  its 
appalling  surroundings.  In  such  a  situation 
a  man  might  well  have  died  through  utter 
fright,  or  have  sunk  down  to  death  through 
despair,  or  have  wandered  aimlessly  till  all 
strength  had  failed  him.  It  was  to  Blake's 
credit  that,  even  in  his  despair,  he  had  pre 
served  some  sort  of  presence  of  mind,  and 
had  not  been  without  a  method  in  his  move 
ments.  Yet  the  suffering  had  been  terrible ; 
and  the  anguish  of  soul  that  he  had  endured 
intensified  his  bodily  fatigues,  so  that  now,  in 
the  very  moment  of  safety,  he  found  himself 
unable  to  obtain  the  benefits  of  that  safety ; 
and  so  extreme  was  his  prostration  and  so 
utter  his  weakness  that  it  was  only  with  dif 
ficulty  that  he  kept  himself  from  sinking 
down  into  senselessness  on  the  spot. 

This  would  not  do.  He  must  obtain  some 
sort  of  a  home,  some  kind  of  a  lodging-place, 
where  he  might  rest  and  receive  attention. 
His  strong  and  resolute  nature  still  asserted 
itself  in  spite  of  the  weakness  of  the  flesh, 
and  he  dragged  himself  onward,  unwilling  to 
give  up,  unable  to  surrender  himself  too  easily 
to  the  frailty  of  his  physical  nature.  The  in 
stinct  of  self-preservation  also  warned  him  to 
seek  some  shelter,  where  he  might  be  con 
cealed  from  the  discovery  of  O'Rourke  ;  for, 
even  in  the  weakness  of  that  hour  and  in  the 
confusion  of  his  mind,  he  had  a  keen  sense 
of  impending  danger,  together  with  a  desire 
to  maintain  the  secret  of  his  escape.  Ani 
mated  by  this,  he  went  on,  but  by  what  ways 
and  under  what  circumstances  he  was  never 
afterward  able  to  remember. 

Afterward  he  had  only  a  vague  recollection 
of  streets  and  houses.  Few  people  were  to 
be  seen.  The  streets  were  narrow,  the  houses 
lofty  and  gloomy.  It  was  the  older,  the 
meaner,  and  the  most  densely-peopled  part 
of  the  city.  The  early  morning  prevented 
many  from  being  abroad.  He  watched  the 
windows  of  the  houses  with  close  and  eager 
scrutiny,  so  as  to  discover  some  place  where 
he  might  rest.  At  length  he  found  a  place 
where  there  was  a  notice  in  the  window  for 
lodgers.  He  knew  enough  Italian  to  under 
stand  it,  and  entered  by  the  door,  which  hap 
pened  to  be  open.  An  old  woman  was  stand 
ing  there,  and  a  young  girl  was  coming  toward 


her  from  an  inner  room.  Blake  accosted  her 
in  broken  Italian,  and  had  just  managed  to 
make  her  understand  that  he  wished  to  en- 
g;ige  lodgings,  when  his  exhausted  strength 
gave  way  utterly,  and  he  sank,  with  a  groan, 
to  the  floor  at  her  feet. 

It  was  fortunate  for  Blake  that  he  had  en 
countered  those  who  possessed  common  feel 
ings  of  humanity,  and  were  not  merely  mer 
cenary  and  calculating  people,  who  would  have 
turned  away  from  their  doors  those  who  prom 
ised  to  bring  more  trouble  than  profit.  It  is 
probable  that  this  old  woman  would  have 
been  quite  ready  to  overreach,  or,  in  fact, 
to  cheat  any  stranger  who  came  to  her  in  an 
ordinary  way ;  and  yet  this  same  old  woman 
was  overcome  by  the  sincerest  compassion 
at  the  sight  of  this  stranger  who  bad  fallen 
at  her  feet.  Such  apparent  contradictions 
are  not  rare,  for  in  Italy  there  is  more  ten 
dency  among  the  common  people  to  swindle 
strangers  than  there  is  in  our  own  country  ; 
and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  there  is  undeniably 
more  kindliness  of  nature,  more  tenderness 
of  sympathy,  more  readiness  of  pity,  more 
willingness  to  help  the  needy,  than  may  be 
found  among  our  harder  and  sterner  natures. 
So  this  old  woman,  though  a  possible  cheat 
and  swindler,  no  sooner  saw  this  stranger 
lying  prostrate  and  senseless,  than,  without  a 
thought  for  her  own  interests,  and  without 
any  other  feeling  or  motive  than  pure  and 
disinterested  pity  and  warm  human  sympa 
thy,  she  flew  to  his  assistance.  She  sum 
moned  the  servants,  she  sent  for  a  doctor, 
and  in  a  short  time  Blake  was  lying  on  a  soft 
bed  in  a  comfortable  room,  watched  over 
most  anxiously  by  perfect  strangers,  who, 
however,  had  been  made  friends  by  his  afflic 
tion,  and  who  now  hung  over  him,  and  tended 
him,  and  cared  for  bkn,  as  though  he  had 
been  one  of  their  own,  instead  of  a  stranger 
and  a  foreigner. 

Blake  was  in  a  high  fever — a  brain-fever 
accompanied  with  delirium.  A  long  ill 
ness  followed.  He  lay  utterly  unconscious  ; 
his  mind  was  occupied  with  the  scenes  through 
which  he  had  passed  of  late ;  and  all  his 
wandering  thoughts  turned  to  the  terrible  ex 
perience  of  that  night  of  horror.  During  all 
this  time  he  was  tended  most  carefully  and 
vigilantly  by  the  kind-hearted  old  woman  and 
her  daughter,  who  were  filled  with  pity  and 
sympathy.  No*  one  word  did  they  under- 
stand  of  all  his  delirious  ravings,  nor  did 


BACK  TO   LIFE. 


201 


they  know  evea  what  language  it  was.  It 
might  be  German,  or  Russian,  or  Bohemian, 
or  Turkish,  or  English,  but  this  made  no  dif 
ference  to  them.  They  maintained  the  part 
of  the  good  Samaritan,  and  denied  themselves 
every  comfort  for  the  sake  of  their  afflicted 
lodger. 

At  length  the  crisis  of  the  disease  was 
successfully  surmounted,  and  Blake  began  to 
recover.  In  course  of  time  he  regained  con 
sciousness,  and  began  to  understand  the  sit 
uation  in  which  he  was.  His  gratitude  to 
these  kind-hearted  people  knew  no  bounds, 
and  his  earnest  expressions  of  his  feelings 
had  to  be  checked  by  his  careful  attendants. 
These  good  people  had  grown  to  regard  him 
as  some  one  who  was  dear  to  them,  and  to 
watch  for  his  recovery  as  for  something  of 
the  utmost  importance.  But  Blake's  prostra 
tion  had  been  extreme,  and  his  recovery  was 
very  slow.  There  was  also  something  on  his 
mind.  This  was  a  desire  to  communicate 
with  his  mother.  But  he  was  unable  to  write 
himself,  and  these  good  people,  though  most 
anxious  to  serve  him  in  every  possible  way, 
were  quite  unable  to  write  a  letter  in  English 
at  his  dictation.  So  Blake  was  forced  to 
wait. 

At  length  Blake  gained  sufficient  strength 
to  write  what  he  wished.  It  was  a  feeble 
scrawl,  and  the  handwriting  itself  expressed 
the  whole  of  his  weakness  ;  but  Blake,  from 
a  motive  of  pious  deceit,  tried  to  conceal  the 
full  extent  of  his  illness.  lie  wrote  some 
thing  about  his  journey  to  Rome  on  "busi 
ness  "  (a  very  convenient  term),  and  about 
his  contracting  an  illness  from  the  unhealthy 
climate.  He  assured  her,  however,  that  he 
was  better,  urged  her  not  to  be  at  all  anxious, 
and  entreated  her  to  come  on  at  once  and 
join  him.  This  letter  he  directed,  and  the 
good  people  of  the  house  mailed  it  for  him, 
after  which  they  waited  with  hardly  less  anx 
iety  than  that  which  was  felt  by  Blake  him 
self  for  the  result. 

That  result  soon  took  place.  In  about 
ten  days  an  elderly  lady  came  to  the  house, 
and  inquired,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  for  Dr. 
Blake.  She  was  a  woman  of  medium  stature, 
slender  figure,  hair  plentifully  sprinkled  with 
gray,  and  a  face  of  gentleness  and  refine 
ment  mingled  with  firmness  and  dignity, 
which  also  bore  evident  marks  of  sorrow. 
She  was  unmistakably  a  lady,  and  she  also 
had  undoubtedly  experienced  her  full  share 


of  those  ills  to  which  all  flesh  is  heir.  The 
moment  that  she  appeared,  the  good  people 
of  the  house  recognized  her  as  the  mother  of 
their  lodger;  and,  while  some  went  to  announce 
her  arrival  so  as  to  spare  Blake  the  excite 
ment  of  a  sudden  surprise,  others  endeavored 
to  soothe  her  evident  anxiety  by  lively  descrip 
tions  of  the  great  improvement  which  had 
taken  place  in  the  health  of  the  invalid. 

In  this  manner  a  way  was  prepared  for  a 
meeting  between  these  two,  and  mother  and 
son  were  soon  in  one  another's  arms. 

At  first  that  mother  had  nothing  to  do 
but  to  nurse  that  son,  to  soothe  him,  and  to 
prohibit  him  from  mentioning  any  exciting 
circumstances.      But  the  son  had  a  strong 
constitution,  which  had  favored  his  recovery, 
and  that  recovery  was  now  materially  hast 
ened  bv  the  arrival  of  that  mother  whom  he 
tenderly  loved ;  whose  presence  at  his  bed 
side  acted  like  a  healing  balm,  and  whose 
very  words  seemed  to  have  some  soothing, 
some  vivifying  power.     After  her  arrival,  his 
recovery  grew  more  rapid,  and  at  length  he  was 
strong  enough  to  give  to  her  a  full  and  com 
plete  account  of  his  whole  history,  without  ex 
cepting  any  thing  whatever.     In  that  history 
she  found  many  things  to  question  him  about. 
She  asked  very  particularly  about  Inez  and 
Bessie.     She   interrogated   him  very  closely 
about  the  scene  at  the  death-bed  of  Ilennigar 
Wyverne,  and  also  asked  him  many  questions 
about  his  friend  Kane  Ilellmuth.     She  was 
struck  by  the  fact  that  Ilellmuth  was  an  as 
sumed  name*;  made  Blake  describe  his  per 
sonal  appearance ;  learned  from  him  the  his 
tory  of  his  marriage  with  Clara  Mordaunt ; 
and  was  anxious  to  know  whether  Blake  had 
not  found  out  his  real  name.     But  her  chief 
interest  was  evinced  in  O'Rourke,  about  whom 
she  questioned  Blake  over  and  over  again, 
seeking  to  know  all  about  his  personal  ap 
pearance,  his  age,  his  height,  his  gestures,  his 
accent,  his  idioms,  his  peculiarities  of  every 
sort.     The  conclusion  of  all  this  was  that  she 
at  length,  with  a  solemn  look  at  Blake,  ex 
claimed  :  "  This  O'Rourke  has  been  deceiving 
you,  and  under  an  assumed  name.     His  real 
name  is  Kevin   Magrath.      It  is  impossible 
that  these  names  can  belong  to  any  other  ex 
cept  one  man." 

"  Kevin  Magrath  ! "  exclaimed  Blake.    "  I 
never  heard  the  name  before." 

"I  suppose  not,  dear,"  said  his  mother; 
"  and  so,  as  you  are  now  strong  enough,  I  will 


202 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


tell  you  all  about  him.  You  will  be  able  to 
understand  what  his  designs  were  about 
you." 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

MES.   WYVERNE. 

BLAKE'S  mother  regarded  him  very  ear 
nestly  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  said,  in  a 
low  voice: 

"  You  remember  well,  dear,  every  inci 
dent  at  the  death-bed  of  Mr.  Wyverne ;  you 
have  not  told  me,  however,  all,  I  am  sure." 

Blake  looked  hastily  at  his  mother.  It 
•was  true,  he  had  not  told  her  all.  The  dying 
man  had  claimed  him  as  his  son ;  this  he  had 
not  mentioned  to  her — how  could  he  ? 

But  now,  as  he  looked  at  her,  he  saw  an 
expression  in  her  face  which  showed  him  that 
she  had  divined  his  secret,  and  had  suspected 
that  Mr.  Wyverne  had  said  more.  'The  look 
which  she  gave  him  invited  further  disclosure, 
without  keeping  any  thing  back.  Yet,  still, 
Blake  hesitated. 

"  When  he  said  that  Inez  was  not  his 
daughter,  had  he 'nothing  to  say  to  you?" 
she  asked.  "  He  must.  He  did.  I  see  it  in 
your  face.  You  are  keeping  it  back.  Don't 
be  afraid ;  I  am  going  to  tell  you  all,  and  there 
is  nothing  in  this  that  should  make  you  hesi 
tate  about  telling  me." 

Upon  this  Blake  hesitated  no  longer,  but 
told  her  all  the  particulars  of  tlje  last  scene 
in  which  he  and  Inez  took  part — he  being 
owned  as  a  son,  and  Inez  rejected  as  a 
daughter. 

His  mother  listened  attentively  to  it  all, 
without  any  comment  whatever.  After  he 
had  ended,  she  said : 

"  I  should  have  explained  it  all  at  once  if 
I  had  only  seen  you,  dear,  but  we  have  never 
had  an  opportunity  since  then.  There  was 
no  reason  for  reticence  on  your  part,  and 
there  is  nothing  in  it  that  is  to  be  dreaded 
either  by  you  or  by  me.  In  the  first  place, 
then,  Basil  dear,  I  may  say  that  Mr.  Wy- 
verne's  dying  declaration  is  true.  You  are 
his  son,  Basil  Blake  Wyverne,  and  I  am  Mrs. 
Hennigar  Wyverne,  your  mother  and  his 
wife." 

For  the  latter  part  of  this  declaration 
Blake  was  utterly  unprepared.  In  his  former 
speculations  as  to  the  probability  of  Mr.  Wy- 


verne's  statement,  he  had  never  thought  of 
his  mother  as  having  lived  under  an  assumed 
name.  He  had  only  thought  of  her  as  Mrs. 
Blake,  and  from  this  point  of  view  the  ques 
tion  was  one  which  he  did  not  care  to  open 
up.  Now,  however,  by  this  simple  statement, 
his  mother  had  cleared  up  the  apparent  mys 
tery.  Still,  another  wonder  remained,  and 
that  was  the  very  fact  that  she  had  stated. 
If  she  had  been  Mrs.  Wyverne,  why  had  she 
left  her  husband  ?  Why  had  she  lived  in  se 
clusion  under  an  assumed  name  ?  why  had 
she  kept  her  secret  so  carefully,  and  brought 
him  up  in  such  total  ignorance  of  his  parent 
age  ?  Together  with  these,  many  other  ques 
tions  occurred  to  his  mind  which  only  served 
to  bewilder  him. 

But  now  all  bewilderment  was  to  end. 
His  mother  held  the  clew  by  which  he  could 
pass  to  the  innermost  centre  of  this  tortuous 
labyrinth  of  plot,  and  counterplot,  and  mys 
tery,  and  disguise. 

"  You  must  know  all,  Basil  dear,"  said 
she.  "  I  will  therefore  begin  at  the  bsgininng 
and  tell  you  the  whole  story." 

Basil  made  no  reply,  but  the  eager  look 
of  his  face  showed  how  great  was  his  desire 
to  hear  that  story. 

"  My  dear  papa,"  said  Mrs.  Blake,  "  was 
a  doctor  in  London.  He  was  engaged  in  a 
large  practice,  but  the  style  in  which  he  found 
it  necessary  to  live  consumed  all  his  income. 
When  he  died  there  was  nothing  left  but  a 
life-assurance  policy  of  five  thousand  pounds, 
which  was  settled  on  me,  and  has  been  my 
support  in  late  years.  Some  time  before  his 
death,  however,  I  married  Mr.  Wyverne,  and 
you  were  born,  and  we  lived  very  happily  un 
til  the  death  of  Bernal  Mordaunt,  and  the  ar 
rival  of  this  Kevin  Magrath  upon  the  scene. 

"  Your  papa  and  Bernal  Mordaunt  were 
relatives,  first  or  second  cousins,  I  am  not 
sure  which,  and  had  always  been  bosom 
friends.  This  Kevin  Magrath  was  some  rel 
ative  of  Mr,  Wyverne' s,  not  very  near,  though, 
and  Mr.  Wyverne's  father  had  helped  him  on 
in  life  very  greatly.  He  sent  him  to  college 
at  Maynooth  to  study  for  the  priesthood  ; 
but  Magrath  got  into  difficulties  there,  and 
had  to  leave.  He  afterward  explained  the 
affair  in  a  way  very  satisfactorily  to  the  elder 
Mr.  Wyverne,  who  received  him  again  into 
favor.  This  Mr.  Wyverne  was  a  solicitor — I 
mean  your  papa's  father— and  admitted  Ma- 
gratli  into  hia  office,  with  the  intention  of 


MRS.   WYVERNE. 


203 


making  him  partner,  I  believe.  His  own  son, 
my  husband,  had  disliked  law,  and  was  en 
gaged  in  the  banking  business.  The  elder 
Mr.  Wyverne,  however,  died  before  Magrath 
had  gained  the  full  benefit  of  this  connection, 
so  that  he  had  once  more  to  look  about  in 
search  of  an  occupation.  Your  papa  now  as 
sisted  him,  and  Magrath  soon  acquired  an  im 
mense  ascendency  over  him.  He  was  ap 
parently  the  soul  of  frankness  and  honor,  and 
with  this  there  was  a  vein  of  quiet  humor 
about  the  man  that  was  very  much  in  his 
favor ;  but,  after  all,  he  was  wily,  selfish,  un 
scrupulous,  and,  in  short,  all  that  you,  my 
poor,  dear  boy  have  found  him  to  be. 

"  I  did  not  see  very  much  of  him  until 
after  the  death  of  poor  Bernal  Mordaunt's 
wife.  We  used  to  see  the  Mordaunts — and 
the  children  were  great  pets  of  mine — Clara 
and  Inez.  Mrs.  Mordaunt  and  I  also  were 
very  tenderly  attached,  and  I  nursed  her  dur 
ing  her  last  illness.  Poor  Bernal  was  utterly 
prostrated  by  the  blow,  and  for  a  time  it  was 
feared  that  he  would  either  die  or  go  mad. 
At  length  he  went  to  the  Continent,  leaving 
the  children  under  my  care.  The  next  we 
heard  of  him  was  that  he  was  going  to  become 
a  priest,  and  go  to  Asia  or  Africa.  After 
about  a  year's  absence,  this  news  was  con 
firmed  by  himself.  lie  visited  us  to  see  his 
children  for  the  last  time,  and  to  make  ar 
rangements  for  their  future  welfare. 

"  These  arrangements  were  simple  enough. 
He  left  the  children  with  me,  for  they  loved 
me  like  a  mother,  and  appointed  your  papa 
their  guardian.  He  then  left,  and  in  about  a 
year  we  heard  that  he  had  died  of  the  plague 
in  Alexandria. 

"  Now  was  the  time  that  my  troubles  com 
menced.  Your  papa  began  to  drop  mysterious 
hints  about  the  children.  He  talked  about  , 
sending  Clara  away  to  France,  and  then  he 
wished  to  adopt  Inez  as  his  child,  and  call 
her  Inez  Wyverne.  At  first  these  proposals 
seemed  merely  foolish  and  unmeaning,  and  I 
laughed  at  them  as  preposterous.  Gradually, 
however,  he  dwelt  upon  it  so  incessantly  that 
I  saw  that  he  was  in  earnest  about  it ;  and  I 
found  that  I  should  have  to  enter  upon  an 
actual  course  of  opposition.  I  found  the 
children  threatened  by  my  own  husband,  and 
myself  placed  in  the  painful  position  of  de 
fender  of  these  poor  orphans  against  the  evil 
designs  of  a  man  who  was  bound,  by  every  tie 
of  duty,  honor,  and  affection,  to  guard  them. 


"This  discovery  was  soon  followed  oy 
another.  It  was  not  your  papa  himself  who 
had  originated  this.  I  hope  and  believe  that 
he  was  iacapable  of  it.  Kevin  Magrath  was 
the  real  originator,  and  he  had  gradually  in 
sinuated  it  into  your  papa's  mind  until  he 
had  familiarized  his  thoughts  with  it.  I  have 
said  already  that  Magrath  had  gained  a 
strange  ascendency  over  him.  In  this  case 
he  stood  behind  your  papa  like  some  tempt 
er,  some  Mephistopheles,  insidiously  whisper 
ing  his  evil  and  cruel  schemes  into  his  ear. 

"If  it  had  been  my  husband  only,  dear 
Basil,  I  am  certain  I  could  have  defended 
those  poor  lambs  successfully;  but,  unfortu 
nately,  Kevin  Magrath  was  always  behind 
him,  and  whenever  my  remonstrances  or  my 
appeals  to  his  better  nature  produced  any  lit 
tle  effect,  it  was  sure  to  pass  away  in  a  short 
time  through  Magrath's  evil  ascendency.  And 
so  I  found  that  my  own  influence  was  grow 
ing  less  and  less,  your  papa  was  becoming 
alienated  from  me,  and  I  was  very  miserable. 
I  had  no  friends  to  whom  I  could  go,  and  my 
only  relatives  were  very  distant  ones  whom  I 
had  never  seen.  About  a  year  passed,  and 
your  papa  finally  grew  impatient  to  carry  out 
his  measures,  so  one  day  he  took  Clara  away, 
during  my  absence  from  the  house.  When  I 
came  home  I  found  poor  little  Inez  sobbing 
in  a  most  heart-broken  manner,  and  I  learned 
the  truth.  Then  all  my  indignation  burst 
forth.  Your  papa  and  I  quarrelled.  I  de 
nounced  him  in  the  strongest  language.  I 
was  wild  with  indignation,  and  the  opinion 
that  I  had  of  the  man  Magrath  made  me  cer 
tain  that  poor  little  Clara's  life  was  in  dan 
ger.  Your  papa  stormed  at  me— declared 
that  Clara  was  safe — that  she  had  gone  to  a 
convent-school  in  Paris,  and  would  receive  a 
good  education.  I  threatened  to  inform  against 
him,  but  he  sneeringly  asked  what  charge  I 
could  bring.  At  this  I  was  silenced ;  for  in 
the  first  place,  as  a  wife,  I  could  hardly  bring 
my  husband  into  the  public  gaze  as  a  crimi 
nal  ;  and,  again,  the  charge  which  I  had  to 
make  could  not  be  sustained. 

"I  still  tried  to  protect  the  remaining 
child  from  their  machinations.  Your  papa 
was  bent  on  carrying  out  his  design  of  chang 
ing  her  name.  What  that  design  really  aimed 
at  I  did  not  then  know,  but  I  fully  believed 
that  the  intention  was  to  deal  dishonestly  and 
foully  by  both  Inez  and  Clara.  Under  these 
circumstances  your  papa  and  I  grew  more 


204 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


and  more  estranged,  more  and  more  hostile, 
until  at  last  his  dislike  or  even  hatred  toward 
me'became  evident  to  all.  He  wished  to  get 
rid  of  me  on  any  terms— he  wished  to  put 
Inez  under  other  influences,  so  as  to  bring  her 
up,  no  doubt,  in  ignorance  of  her  real  name 
and  real  rights,  and  I  stood  in  the  way.  It 
became  more  and  more  an  object  with  him  to 
get  rid  of  me.  At  length,  one  day,  Inez  was 
taken,  and  sent  away  I  knew  not  where.  Upon 
this  I  grew  quite  wild  in  my  despair— once 
more  there  was  a  furious  scene,  in  which  I 
threatened  to  denounce  him  in  the  face  of  the 
world.  Once  again  he  laughed  at  my  threats, 
and  told  me  that,  on  removing  the  children 
from  my  care,  he  had  only  sought  their  own 
good,  because  I  was  not  a  fit  person  to  take 
care  of  them — that  he  could  produce  them  at 
any  moment,  if  they  were  needed,  and  silence 
easily  any  silly  clamor  that  I  might  raise.  In 
fact,  once  more  I  perceived  that  I  was  power 
less.  ' 

"But  your  papa  had  designs,  and  my 
presence,  together  with  my  suspicions,  was 
very  unwelcome.  He  became  eager  to  get 
rid  of  me,  no  matter  how.  At  length  he  him 
self  proposed  this.  He  said  that,  if  I  would 
go,  he  would  allow  me  to  take  you ;  but,  if 
I  refused,  he  would  find  a  way  to  make  me. 
I  then  dreaded  that  he  might  deprive  me  of 
you  also,  and  this  last  fear  was  too  much, 
besides,  living  there  under  the  baleful  influ 
ence  of  Kevin  Magrath  was  intolerable,  and 
so,  at  length,  I  accepted  this  offer. 

"  That  is  the  reason  why  I  separated  from 
your  papa,  Basil  dear.  It  was  not  my  act — 
it  was  his.  Fortunately,'  I  was  quite  indepen 
dent  of  him.  He  had  stipulated  to  give  me 
an  allowance,  and  I  pretended  to  assent  to 
this ;  but,  the  moment  I  had  got  safely  away 
with  you,  I  resolved  to  put  myself  out  of 
his  reach  altogether.  With  this  intention  I 
changed  my  name,  and  went  to  live  in  a  little 
village  in  "Wales,  near  Conway — the  place,  in 
fact,  which  you  knew  as  your  home ;  and  for 
years  neither  your  papa  nor  Kevin  Magrath 
had  the  faintest  idea  where  I  was,  or  whether 
we  were  alive  or  dead. 

"  The  opinion  which  I  formed  then  as  to 
the  plot  of  this  Kevin  Magrath — the  plot  which 
he  induced  your  father  to  try  to  carry  into  ac 
complishment—I  have  never  changed  since ; 
but,  on  the  contrary,  subsequent  events  have 
all  tended  to  confirm  that  opinion  only  too 
painfully.  I  thought  that  he  was  trying  no 


[ess  a  thing  than  to  get  control  of  the  great 
Mordaunt  inheritance.     I  am  not  sure,  but  I 
think,  that  your  papa  was  next  of  kin  to  Ber- 
nal  Mordaunt,  after  his  own  children ;  and, 
consequently,  if  these  children  should  by  any 
means  be  put  out  of  the  way — if  it  could  be 
made  to  appear  that  they  were  dead — why, 
then,  your  papa  would  gain  the  great  Mor- 
dauut   inheritance,  and   possibly  Kevin   Ma 
grath  would  himself  obtain  such  a  share  of 
the  prize  as  might  be  commensurate  with  his 
own  services.     Now,  I  saw  Clara  taken  away 
to  a  foreign  country,  and  never  expected  to 
see  her  again.     This  I  considered  the  begin 
ning  of  that  policy  which  was  to  make  the 
children  as  good  as  dead,  so  as  to  clear  the 
way  for  the  next  of  kin.   When  Inez  followed, 
then  I  felt  sure  that  she  was  the  next  victim. 
"  It  appears,  however,  that  Kevin  Magrath 
did  not  intend  to  lay  violent  hands  on  them. 
His  purpose,  no  doubt,  was  to  get  them  out 
of  the  way,  and  either  make  up  a  plausible 
story  of  their  death,  accompanied,  of  course, 
by  the  necessary  proofs,  or  else  bring  forward 
creatures  of  their  own  as  substitutes.     Who 
this  Bessie  Mordaunt  can  be,  of  whom  you 
speak,  I  cannot  imagine.     There  are  no  rela 
tives  named  Mordaunt.     Your  papa  was  the 
next  of  kin,  and  it  looks  as  if  this  Bessie 
may  be  some  one  used  by  these  arch-plotters 
as  a  means  of  gaining  the  estate.     I  cannot 
imagine  where  your  papa  could  have  obtained 
her,  but  I  take  it  for  granted,  of  course,  that 
she  is  some  creature  of  Kevin  Magrath's.    He 
had  a  little  family,  I  remember— a  wife  and 
daughter — but  that  is  out  of  the  question,  of 
course. 

"  Well,  I  may  as  well  go  on  with  my  story. 
After  I  had  left  your  papa,  I  was  not  idle.  I 
put  you  at  a  boarding-school,  and  spent  three 
months  in  Paris  searching  after  Clara  Mor 
daunt.  I  succeeded  in  finding  her  at  last. 
She  was  quite  happy,  and  I  did  not  like  to 
distress  her  by  telling  her  what  was  going  on. 
I  therefore  did  not  speak  to  her  at  all  about 
any  of  her  family  affairs,  but  was  satisfied  to 
find  that  she  remembered  me  and  loved  me. 
She,  of  course,  knew  me  by  my  true  name. 
She  called  Mr.  Wyverne  her  guardian,  and  had 
no  suspicion  of  any  evil  on  his  part.  She  had 
never  seen  him  since  she  left  our  house.  She 
thought  my  visit  was  known  to  him.  After 
this  I  kept  watch  over  her.  I  could  find  out 
nothing  about  Inez,  however,  for  some  time, 
At  length,  to  my  horror,  Clara  disappeared 


MRS.   WYYERNE. 


205 


They  told  me  at  the  school  about  a  runaway- 
match,  and  I  found  out  that  it  was  only  too 
true.    She  had  married  some  adventurer,  they 
said.     I  learned  that  his  name  was  Ruthven. 
He  belonged  to  a  good  family." 
"  Ruthven  !  "  exclaimed  Blake. 
"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Wy  verne,  not  noticing 
the  astonishment  that  was  visible  in  the  face 
of  her  son  as  he  said  this — "yes,  a  Mr.  Ruth 
ven,  younger  son  of  a  great  family,  but  a  roue 
and  a  man  of  bad  reputation.     He  had  run 
away  with  her,  they  said,  and,  in  short,  it 
was  the  old,  old  story.      For  my  part,  Basil 
dear,  at  that  time  I  had  no  doubt  that  this 
was  the  doing  of  Magrath  ;  that  this  Ruthven 
was   his  etaissary,  and  that  this   had   been 
done  to   remove  Clara  Mordaunt  out  of  his 
Way.     It  is  the  peculiarity  of  this  man's  na 
ture  always  to  avoid  crime  himself,  and  to 
carry  out  his  purposes  by  what  I  may  call 
natural  means  ;  thus,  instead  of  doing  any  act 
of  violence  himself  against  those  who  might 
be  in  his  way,  he  chose  rather  to  effect  their 
removal  in  such  a  way  as  should  prevent  any 
guilt  from  attaching  to  him.     He  would  not 
injure  Clara  directly,  but  he  caused  her  to  be 
utterly  ruined   by  means   of  this    emissary, 
who  was  only  too  successful  in  his  purpose. 

"  Well,  you  miy  imagine  my  despair  when 
I  learned  this,  and  when,  after  all  my  efforts, 
I  could  find  no  trace  of  her.  I  returned  home, 
and  wondered  how  all  this  would  end,  and 
chafed  all  the  time  against  my  own  weakness 
and  helplessness.  For  I  could  no  nothing.  I 
knew  that,  in  the  eyes  of  Heuven,  crimes  had 
been  committed  by  these  men,  yet  I  could 
prove  no  crimes.  Through  the  craft  of  Ma 
grath  they  had  kept  themselves  out  of  the 
reach  of  human  law. 

"In  the  midst  of  my  unhappiness  about 
Clara,  I  received  a  letter  from  her.  I  had 
told  her  once  before  where  I  lived,  allowing 
her  to  suppose  that  Mr.  Wyverne  lived  there 
too,  trusting  her  with  my  secret,  because  I 
knew  that  she  would  not  be  in  a  position  to 
divulge  it,  since  she  never  saw  your  papa. 
So  she  wrote  to  me,  addressing  the  letter  to 
Mrs.  Wyverne.  I  had  to  make  up  some 
plausible  story  to  the  post-woman,  who  kept 
the  little  shop  where  the  post-office  was,  so 
as  to  get  that  letter,  pretending  to  her  that 
Wyverne  was  an  assumed  name,  and  making 
up  a  story  to  suit  the  occasion,  and  thus  I 
\ras  able  to  get  it.  It  was  a  heart-rending 
letter.  She  spoke  of  poverty,  danger,  de 


spair,  and  death,  and  entreated  me  to  hasten 
on  and  do  something  to  save  her.  It  was 
vaguely  expressed,  but  I  saw  that  she  was  in 
great  danger.  She  signed  herself  Clara  Ruth 
ven,  by  which  I  saw  that  she  was  married,  or 
at  least  supposed  herself  to  be.  I  hastened  on. 
I  hurried  to  the  house  which  she  mentioned  as 
her  lodgings,  and  arrived  there  only  to  find 
her  in  a  raging  fever.  The  people  cf  the 
house  told  me  that  she  had  only  been  there 
a  few  days;  that  she  had  come  in  a  great 
state  of  excitement,  and,  after  sending  off  a 
letter  which  they  supposed  was  to  me,  she 
had  beea  seized  with  illness,  which  had  grown 
worse  and  worse.  She  was  delirious  for  a 
long  time,  but  eventually  recovered.  I  re 
mained  with  her  and  nursed  her,  as  I  had 
nursed  her  mother;  but  she,  more  fortunate, 
yet -perhaps,  after  all,  less  fortunate,  was 
saved  from  her  mother's  fate,  and  was  re 
st  ired  eventually  to  life  and  health. 

"  I  found  her  grateful  beyond  all  power 
of  language  to  express — most  touchingly  so 
— yet  there  was  over  her  a  profound  and  in 
vincible  sadness,  which  bordered  on  despair. 
On  the  events  which  had  occurred  since  her 
elopement  she  would  not  speak.  She  made 
no  reference  whatever  to  her  letter.  She 
preserved  a  most  obstinate  silence  about  all 
these  things,  and  I  know  no  more  of  them 
now  than  you  do.  Something  terrible,  how 
ever,  had  happened.  Her  husband  —  for  I 
will  call  him  this — had  either  died  or  he  had 
forsaken  her.  I  do  not  know  which  ;  and, 
whichever  it  was  that  had  taken  place,  the 
effect  was  to  crush  out  in  her  young  heart  all 
joy  and  hope  forever. 

"  I  tried  to  induce  her  to  return  to  Eng 
land  and  live  with  me,  but  she  refused.  I 
then  told  her  the  truth  about  her  life.  She 
was  actually  ignorant  that  she  was  the  heir 
ess  of  Mordaunt  Manor.  She  did  not  remem 
ber  much  about  her  youth.  She  had  lived  so 
long  amid  foreign  scenes,  that  this  remem 
brance  had  died  out.  Besides,  she  had  not 
lived  very  constantly  at  Mordaunt  Manor,  but 
had  lived  in  Italy  for  several  years  with  her 
mother,  who  was  an  invalid.  But,  when  I 
told  her  the  truth,  it  had  no  effect  whatever. 
I  told  her  about  her  sister  Inez,  but  she  was 
indifferent.  She  would  not  leave  Paris.  There 
was  some  mournful  attraction  about  the  place 
which  kept  her  there.  She  only  longed  to 
find  some  home  there,  where  she  might  live  in 
peace  and  seclusion.  At  length  she  conceived 


206 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


a  strong  desire  to  become  a  Sister  of  Charity. 
She  thought  that  such  a  life  would  give  her 
the  seclusion  and  peace  which  she  longed  for, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  that  she  would  have 
sufficient  occupation  to  distract  her  thoughts 
and  save  her  from  despair. 

"From  that  resolve  I  found  it  impossible 
to  move  her.  Every  thing  that  I  mentioned 
was  received  with  indifference,  and  at  length 
I  found  it  necessary  to  desist  and  to  yield  to 
her  desires.  She  found  a  sisterhood  at  last, 
and  entered  upon  her  novitiate.  Then  I  left 
her,  and  have  never  seen  her  since,  though 
we  have  exchanged  letters  every  year." 


CHAPTER  L. 
A  MOTHER' s  PLOT. 

BLAKE  had  listened  thus  far  almost  in  si 
lence,  but  these  last  revelations  about  Clara 
filled  him  with  the  strongest  emotion.  Pie 
had  already  heard  from  Kane  the  story  of 
Clara's  marriage,  and  the  tragic  termination 
of  that  married  life  ;  but  his  mother's  story 
furnished  an  appendix,  or  rather  a  sequel,  to 
that  story  scarcely  less  tragic  than  that  which 
Kane  had  told  of.  Yet  Kane's  perfect  belief 
in  her  death,  his  vigils  over  her  grave,  in 
Pere-la-Chaise,  were  so  well  known  to  Blake 
that  they  had  inspired  him  with  the  same  be 
lief, 'and  now  he  could  hardly  credit  his  moth 
er's  revelations. 

"Do  you  really  mean  to  say,"  he  ex 
claimed  at  last,  as  she  paused  in  her  nar 
rative,  "  that  Clara  Mordaunt,  after  all,  is  not 
dead  ?  " 

"She  certainly  is  not  dead,"  said  his 
mother,  placidly.  "  Have  I  not  been  telling 
all  about  her  life  ?  " 

"  She  is  alive  now — really  and  truly  ?  " 
"  Really  and  truly.     But  it  seems  to  me 
that  you  show  a  very  strange  kind  of  feeling 
about  it.        How  agitated    you    are,    Basil 
dear ! " 

"  Alive  !  "  repeated  Blake,  musingly  ; 
«  alive— and  a  Sister  of  Charity  ?  That  is— a 
nun — a  nun  in  black — " 

"  What  is  all  that  ?  "  asked  his  mother. 
u  What  are  you  saying  about  nuns,  and 
things  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  said  Blake  ;  "  only,  its 
confoundedly  strange.  But  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it." 


Upon  this  Blake  proceeded  to  tell  her 
about  Kane,  and  Kane's  account  of  his  mar 
riage,  and  Kane's  fancy  about  apparitions. 
To  all  of  this  his  mother  listened  in  evident 
surprise,  and  with  much  emotion. 

"Wonders  will  never  cease,"  she  ex 
claimed.  "  Who  could  have  imagined  this  ? 
So  your  friend  Kane  Hellmuth  must  be  Kane 
Ruthven — and  so  he  is  not  an  emissary  of 
Magrath's,  but  an  honest  man." 

"  An  honest  man  !  "  cried  Blake.  "  I  tell 
you,  mother  dear,  he  is  one  of  the  noblest 
fellows  that  I  ever  saw.  There  was  no  hum 
bug  there,  I  can  tell  you.  No  man  ever  loved 
a  woman* better  than  he  did  Clara  Mordaunt. 
Why,  only  think  of  him  now,  with  his  blighted 
life,  and  his  misery  and  remorse !  " 

"go— that  was  it,"  continued  Mrs.  Wy- 
verne ;  "  and  tbat  accounts  for  poor  Clara's 
despair.  She  escaped  death,  and  he  died — or 
she  thought  he  did.  But  how  strange,  in  such 
a  solemn  and  really  awful  attempt  at  suicide, 
that  both  should  escape,  and  each  go  into  de 
spair  about  the  other." 

"  Why,  they  must  have  met  over  and 
over.  These  meetings  have  seemed  to  Kane 
to  be  apparitions.  I  wonder  if  they  have 
seemed  so  to  her?  Oh,  why  didn't  she  speak  ? 
Why  didn't  she  explain,  instead  of  giving 
him  silent,  despairing  looks  ?  " 

Mrs.  Wryverne  sighed. 

"  I  can  understand,"  said  she.  "  It's  all 
over  with  them — she  is  dead  to  him." 

"  Dead  to  him  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  she  is  a  Sister  of  Charity.  She 
has  taken  the  vows,  and  so  she  is  dead  to 
poor  Kane — and  that,  no  doubt,  is  the  reason 
why  she  has  looked  at  him  so — in  dumb  de 
spair.  I  can  understand  it  all.  She  thought 
him  dead.  His  absence  for  years  confirmed 
that  belief.  These  meetings  must  have  af 
fected  her  as  they  affected  him.  She  is,  at 
least,  as  superstitious  as  he  is.  But,  in  any 
case,  it  is  just  as  well,  since  they  never  can 
belong  to  one  another  again." 

At  this  sad  thought  Blake  was  silent.  His 
first  feeling  had  been  one  of  joy.  He  thought 
of  flying  at  once  to  tell  Kane  the  news,  but 
now  he  saw  that  such  news  as  this  had  better 
not  be  told  to  his  friend. 

"  But  I  must  go  on,"  continued  Mrs.  Wy- 
verne,  "  and  tell  you  something  about  my 
share  in  these  later  events  of  your  life,  Basil 
dear.  Well,  then,  for  years  I  had  no  commu 
nication  with  your  father,  and  preserved  my 


A   MOTHER'S  PLOT. 


207 


incognito  and  my  seclusion  most  carefully.  I 
heard,  however,  from  time  to  time,  that  he 
was  alive,  though  he  never  could  have  heard 
any  thing  about  me.  At  length  you  had  fin 
ished  your  education,  and  you  got  that  situa 
tion  in  Paris,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  you 
ought  to  know  something  about  your  past, 
yet  I  did  not  know  exactly  how  to  tell  you, 
for  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  terrible  thing  to 
tell  a  son  about  a  father's  guilt.  Then,  again, 
I  thought  that,  if  your  father  could  only  see 
you,  he  might  feel  some  emotion  of  affection  ; 
and  possibly,  if  he  were  brought  into  connec 
tion  with  you  in  any  way,  you  might  gain  an 
influence  over  his  better  nature,  by  means  of 
which  the  fatal  ascendency  of  Magrath  might 
be  destroyed. 

"  With  these  hopes  I  made  a  journey  to 
London  very  secretly,  and  succeeded  in  find 
ing  out  all  about  your  papa's  circumstances. 
1  learned  that  he  was  in  very  feeble  health.  I 
learned  that  he  had  a  family  consisting  of  two 
young  ladies,  one  of  whom  was  named  Inez 
Wyverne,  and  the  other,  Bessie  Mordaunt. 
"Who  Bessie  Mordaunt  was  I  did  not  know, 
nor  do  I  now  know;  but,  as  to  Inez  Wy- 
verne,  there  could  be  no  doubt.  I  saw  at 
once  that  he  had  carried  his  old  plan — or 
rather  Magrath's  old  plan — into  execution, 
and  that  my  poor  darling  Inez  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  belief  that  her  name  was 
Wyverne,  and  that  she  was  his  daughter. 
Yet  even  this  discovery  of  his  unfaltering 
pursuit  of  his  purpose  did  not  destroy  the 
hope  which  I  had  formed  of  working  on  him 
through  you. 

"  Circumstances  favored  my  wish.  I 
learned  that  he  was  going  to  the  Continent  for 
his  health,  and  that  St.  Malo  was  his  destina 
tion.  And  now,  Basil  dear,  you  understand 
why  I  wrote  you  so  earnestly  about  your 
health  ;  why  I  insisted  so  strongly  upon  your 
having  some  recreation  ;  why,  above  all,  I  al 
most  ordered  you  to  go  to  St.  Malo.  You 
must  have  wondered  at  what  you  considered 
a  woman's  whim  ;  but  it  was  not  that,  Basil 
dear ;  it  was  something  far  deeper.  And  I 
insisted  on  your  going  there  solely  because  I 
hoped  that  you  might  meet  with  your  own 
father.  But  I  did  not  trust  to  accident.  I 
made  sure  of  a  meeting  between  you.  I  wrote 
him  a  letter,  and  reminded  him  of  all  the 
past ;  of  that  better  past,  the  past  of  inno 
cence,  of  love,  and  of  domestic  joy.  I  re 
minded  him  of  the  child  whom  he  once  loved 


before  his  soul  had  become  darkened  and  his 
heart  hardened  through  the  wiles  of  the 
Tempter.  I  told  him  that  his  son — our  son 
— the  associate  of  his  better  past,  and  of  the 
days  of  his  innocence,  was  now  a  man — an 
honorable  gentleman;  and  that  this  son  would 
be  at  St.  Malo's,  ready  there  to  become  his 
better  angel,  and  lead  him  back  to  virtue  and 
peace.  I  told  him  how  you  had  been  brought 
up,  Basil  dear ;  how  ignorant  you  were  of  all 
his  faults ;  how  ignorant  you  were  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  any  connection  with  the  name  of 
Wyverne.  I  told  him  that  I  had  heard  of  his 
proposed  journey  to  St.  Malo's,  and  had  made 
you  promise  to  go  there,  with  the  hope  that 
the  guilty  father  might  meet  with  the  inno 
cent  son,  and  might  be  moved  to  repentance 
through  a  father's  love. 

"And,  0  Basil  dear,  how  can  I  tell  you 
the  feelings  that  I  had  as  I  received  your  let 
ters — those  letters  which  showed  me  that  \\e 
had  yet  lingering  in  his  heart  the  feelings  of  a 
father?  lie  had  not  forgotten  the  child  whom 
he  once  loved.      Avarice  had  hardened  his 
heart,  but  sickness  and  weakness  had  softened 
it  again,  and  the  sight  of  you  awakened  a  deep 
yearning  within   him.      Now   you    know  all. 
Xow  you  understand  why  it  was  that  the  poor 
invalid  clung  to  you,  why  he  yielded  to  you, 
why  he  threw  at  you  those  looks  of  deep  af 
fection,  why  he  loved  to  see  you  with  the  in 
jured  Inez.     He  had  repented.     lie  was  long 
ing  to  make  amends.     He  could  not  tell  you 
all  that  was  in  his  heart  to  say.     He  could 
not  reveal  to  you  the  truth  about  his  past  life, 
for  fear  that  you  would  scorn  him.     He  had 
my  address,  and  wrote  me  one  or  t\vo  letters, 
full  of  repentance  for  his  past.     He  implored 
my  forgiveness.    He  promised  to  make  amends. 
He  spoke  of  his  deep  love  for  you.     He  en 
treated  me  to  find  someway  of  making  known 
these  things  to  you  without  exciting  your  de 
testation.     He  wished  me  to  come  on  at  once, 
and  join  him,  and  tell  all  to  you  in  such  a  way 
that  you  might  own  him  for  your  father.     He 
spoke  of  your  regard  for  Inez,  and  expressed 
the  hope  that  a  union  between  you  two  might 
be  brought  about;  for  somehow  he  seemed  to 
consider  this  the  best  sort  of  atonement  that 
he  could  make. 

"  I  was  overcome.  I  was  not  very  well 
just  then,  and  could  not  travel.  Besides,  I 
thought  it  best  to  wait,  leaving  you  two  to 
know  one  another  better.  The  profound 
reverence  which  you  expressed  for  him 


208 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


touched  rne,  nnd  I  wished  this  reverence  to 
deepen  into  affection;  and  then  I  thought  I 
would  join  you,  and  my  work  of  reconcilia 
tion  would  be  made  easier.  Oh,  if  I  had  but 
gone  on  then  !  How  much  suffering  would 
have  been  prevented  for  all  of  us  !  But  I 
acted  for  the  best. 

"  Well,  dear  Basil,  you  know  the  rest. 
You  went  away  to  Switzerland,  and  there 
your  poor  papa  died.  That  letter  which  you 
spoke  of  struck  him  down.  I  don't  know 
what  was  in  it,  but  it  was  undoubtedly  some 
communication  from  Kevin  Magrath— some 
threat — some  terror.  At  any  rate,  he  sunk 
down  to  death,  and  strove  vainly,  at  the  last, 
to  make  some  feeble  amends  by  expressions 
of  remorse,  by  a  declaration  of  the  truth.  0 
Basil !  that  father's  heart  yearned  over  you 
then,  as  Death  stood  near;  and  I  believe — 1 
know — that  his  repentance  was  sincere.  Pray, 
Basil  dear — pray  for  your  father;  pray  for 
the  repose  of  the  soul  of  the  repentant  Heu- 
nigar  Wyverne ! " 

Mrs.  Wyverne  stopped,  overcome  by  deep 
emotion.  Blake  also  felt  himself  profoundly 
moved.  His  mother's  story  brought  up  vivid 
ly  before  him  the  form  of  that  venerable  in 
valid  who  had  manifested  such  a  strong  re 
gard  for  him — the  form  of  that  dying  man 
who,  at  the  last  hour  of  life,  had  claimed  him 
as  a  son.  It  had  been  all  a  mystery,  but  now 
nil  was  revealed.  What  he  had  considered  a 
strange  coincidence  was  now  shown  to  be  no 
coincidence  at  all,  but  the  result  of  his  moth 
er's  management,  and  of  her  desire  to  bring 
father  and  son  together. 

There  was  nothing  which  he  could  say  on 
such  a  subject.  It  was  a  painful  one  from 
any  point  of  view.  His  father's  past  could 
not  be  discussed,  as  it  was  a  past  filled  with 
wrong-doing  too  late  repented  of.  His  fa 
ther's  death-bed  was  too  sad  a  theme  for  con 
versation. 

But  there  were  other  thoughts  which  had 
bt-cn  suggested  by  these  revelation?,  and 
prominent  among  them  was  his  mother's  con 
viction  that  O'Rourke  was  no  other  th;m 
Kevin  Magrath.  O'Rourke,  he  well  knew, 
must  huve  some  motive.  Down  in  the  gloom 
of  the  Catacombs,  at  that  first  appalling  mo 
ment  of  desertion,  he  had  fancied  for  a  time 
that  his  betrayer  must  be  a  madman  ;  but 
after  he  had  heard  those  words  stealing 
through  the  piled-up  stones  to  his  ears, 
"  Blake  Wyverne,  farewell  forever  f  "  he  saw 


that  this  treachery  must  have  been  premedi 
tated,  and  that  it  must  have  arisen  out  of  hi3 
relation  to  Ilennigar  Wyverne.  Now,  when 
that  relation  was  assured,  it  became  a  more 
certain  cause  than  ever  for  O'Rourke's  treach 
ery.  Yet  why  it  should  be  a  cause,  and  what 
benefit  O'Rourke  could  hope  to  gain,  re- 
maincd  as  much  a  mystery  as  ever. 

"  It  may  be  true,  mother  dear,"  said  he, 
"  that  O'Rourke  is  only  your  Kevin  Magrath 
under  an  assumed  name.  I  don't  deny  it, 
since  you  are  so  sure  about  it ;  but  I  confess 
it  is  a  puzzle  to  me  why  O'Rourke,  or  Ma 
grath,  or  whoever  he  is,  should  take  the 
trouble  to  elaborate  so  intricate  a  plot  against 
such  an  insignificant  personage  as  I  am. 
What  am  I,  that  he  should  labor  so  secretly, 
so  persistently,  and  for  so  long  a  time,  to 
compass  my  destruction  ?  What  benefit  could 
he  get  by  it  ?  I  must  say,  it  seems  to  me,  in 
the  hackneyed  French  phrase,  "  the  play  isn't 
worth  the  candle." 

Mrs.  Wyverne  looked  gravely  up. 

"You   speak  now,"  said  she,  "as  Basil 

Blake,  not  as  Basil  Wyverne.     You  forget 

that,  though  Basil  Blake  is  insignificant,  Basil 

!  Wyverne  is  very  much  the  contrary.     He  is 


the  son  and  heir  of  Hennigar  Wyverne,  a 
well-known  London  banker  of  great  wealth. 
What  he  had  of  his  own  was  immense  ;  what 
he  has  appropriated  from  the  Mordaunt  prop 
erty  I  cannot  tell ;  but  certain  it  is  that  you, 
his  son,  are  the  heir  of  a  vast  fortune.  This 
of  itself  would  be  a  prize  sufficient  to  induce 
Kevin  Magrath  to  get  you  removed.  Suppos- 
in"1  thnt  you  were  removed,  I  do  net  see  ex 
actly  how  he  could  enter  upcn  the  possession 
of  the  estate  of  your  papa,  but  I  have  no 
doubt  that  he  would  menage  to  do  it.  At 
any  rate,  you  may  be  sure  that  this  was  his 
motive.  He  went  to  the  Catacombs  with  you, 
as  he  said,  for  a  great  treasure— not,  how 
ever  for  his  pretended  treasure  of  the  Cffi- 
sars,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  more  common 
place  treasure  of  the  Wyvernes.  Such  a 
treasure  was  worthy,  in  his  estimation,  of 
such  a  deed.  And  you  see,  Basil  dear,  his 
hand.  You  see  how  cautiously,  how  elabo 
rately,  he  has  worked.  He  has  tried  to  re 
move  you  from  the  world,  so  that  you  should 
leave  no  trace  whatever.  If  you  had  not  es 
caped,  there  would  not  have  been  even  the 
faintest  indication  which  might  have  disclosed 
your  fate.  You  would  have  vanished  from 
the  scene  utterly.  Your  incoherent  letter  to 


A   MOTHER'S  PLOT. 


209 


me  told  nothing  at  all,  and  I  imagine  the  let 
ter  that  you  wrote  to  your  friend  Kane  must 
have  been  equally  unintelligible.  When  I  re 
ceived  your  letter,  I  had  just  recovered  from 
a  severe  illness,  and  the  fears  which  it  created 
almost  sent  me  baek  again." 

"  Illness,  mother  dear  ?  "  said  Blake,  anx 
iously.  "You  never  mentioned  that  be 
fore." 

u  Illness?     0  my  boy!"  said  Mrs.  Wy 
verne.     "  It  is  not  worth  speaking  of,  since  it 
is  past;  but,  while  it  lasted,  I  was  as  near  to 
death  as  you  were  in  the  Catacombs.     It  was 
the  news  of  the  death  of  your  poor  papa  that 
struck  me  down.     It  came  so  sudden,  and  at 
the  very  time,  too,  when  I  was  indulging  in 
such  bright  hopes.     I  was  preparing  to  join 
you,  and  to  perform  the  part  of  general  rec 
onciler.     I  hoped  to  be  joined  at  last  to  the 
husband  of  my  youth,  with  whom  I  had  lived 
in  the  happiest  part  of  my  life.     0  Basil! 
dear  boy,  you  do  not  know,  you  cannot  ima 
gine  how  strongly  I  had  set  my  heart  on  this 
reunion,  on  this  reconciliation.     But  suddenly 
the  news   came,  and   all   these   hopes  were 
dashed  to  the  ground.     The  blow  was  a  ter 
rible   one,  and   for  a  time  all  hope  died  out, 
and  a.ll  desire  for  life.     I  was  utterly  pros 
trated,  and  remained  so  for  weeks.     During 
all  that  time  I  heard  nothing  from  you,  and  a 
great  anxiety  came  over  me.     This  made  it 
worse.      Your  incoherent   and  unintelligible 
letter  gave  me  nothing  but  uneasiness,  and, 
as  nothing  followed  it,  I  sank  into  despair. 
At  length  I  recovered  my  bodily  strength,  and 
was  able  to  move  about ;  but  still,  dear  boy, 
I  could  never  find  any  respite  whatever  from 
the  dreadful  suspense  and  anxiety  in  which  I 
was  about  you.     At   last  your  letter  came, 
telling  me  that  you  had  been  ill,  and  wanted 
me.     Such  a  letter  at  ordinary  times  would, 
have  been  sad  indeed,  but  to  me,  under  those 
circumstances,  it  was  like  a  resurrection  from 
despair.     I  found  new  life  and  strength,  and 
hurried  on  to  you  at  once.     But,  apart  from 
my  own  misfortunes,  what  you  told  me  about 
yours,  Basil  dear,  makes  me  feel  certain  that 
your  Dr.  0'Rour.te  is  no  other  than  Kevin 
Magrath.     He's  no  more  a  doctor  than  I  am. 
He  played  the  part  of  one  merely  for  the  pur 
pose  of  making  your  acquaintance.     He  is  no 
more  a  doctor  than  he  is  a  priest." 

"  It  was  as  a  priest  that  Kane  saw  him," 
said  Blake,  who  then  went  on  to  tell  about 
Kane's  journey  to  London. 


"  Yes,  yes,  oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Wyverne, 
as  he  ended.  "Every  thing  that  you  tell  mo 
only  shows  more  and  more  plainly  the  un 
mistakable  marks  of  Kevin  Magrath.  Now, 
not  one  word  of  all  that  he  told  Kane  was 
true.  Inez  was  not  the  daughter  of  Hennijrar 
Wyverne,  and  he  knew  it.  Hennigar  Wy- 
verne  did  not  die  poor,  for  he  left  an  immense 
property,  which  perhaps  Magrath  is  now  try 
ing  to  gain  for  himself.  Above  all,  Clara  is 
not  dead,  and  he  could  not  have  known  any 
thing  about  her." 

"Bui,  mother  dear,  if  this  terrible  Kevin 
Magrath  is  so  anxious  to  get  the  Wyverne 
property,  what  will  he  do  about  you  ?  " 

"About  me?  Well,  I  don't  know.  I 
have  taken  care  to  keep  out  of  his  reach.  lie 
is  not  the  man  to  overlook  me,  however  in 
significant  I  may  be.  No  doubt  he  has  his 
designs  with  regard  to  me.  I  dare  say  he 
has  formed  some  plan,  if  he  can  find  me,  to 
work  upon  my  love  for  you,  to  invent  some 
story  about  your  going  to  America,  and  en 
tice  me  away,  where  I  shall  never  trouble  him 
again.  That  is  his  mode  of  action.  If  you, 
dear,  had  not  written  to  me,  he  might  have 
done  this,  for  I  would  have  gone  to  the  north- 
pole  after  you,  even  on  the  strength  of  a 
forged  letter  or  a  trumped-up  story  ;  but  now, 
Basil  boy,  since  I  have  you,  there  is  no  need 
for  us  to  conjecture  any  thing  as  to  what 
Kevin  Magrath  might  have  done." 

"Did  you  stop  in  London  on  your  way 
here?"  asked  Blake,  after  a  moment's  pause. 
"  Stop  in  London,  dear  Basil  ?     Of  course 
not.'' 

"  You  did  not  hear  any  thing,  then,  about 
Inez  ?  n 

"  Oh,  no.  I  was  too  anxious  about  you,' 
dear." 

Blake  sighed. 

"I  did  not  know,"  said  he,  "but  that  you 
might  have  heard  something  about  them." 

"  No,  Basil  dear,  not  a  word.  You  see,  I 
came  on  at  once,  almost  from  a  bed  of  illness, 
to  you,  for  your  sake,  dear  boy." 

Basil  was  silent.  He  was  longing  to  hear 
something  about  Inez. 

"  I  shall  be  able  to  travel,  dear  mother," 
said  he,  after  a  time,  "in  a  day  or  two,  and 
Rome  is  horrible  to  me,  after  what  has  hap 
pened.  I  should  like  to  go  to  England  at 
once — to  London — but  I  suppose  on  our  way 
we  ought  to  stop  at  Paris.  I  want  to  sea 
Kane,  to  tell  him  what  you  have  told  me ;  or, 


210 


AX   OPEN  QUESTION. 


at  any  rate,  to  see  Mm,  whether  I  tell  him 
that  or  not." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Wyverne,  "  that  is  no 
more  than  right.  I  also  wish  to  go  to  Paris, 
for  I  should  like  very  much  to  see  poor,  dear 
Clara." 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  I  ought  to  tell 
Kane  about  her  or  not,"  said  Blake,  doubt 
fully. 

41  Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't,"  said  his  mother; 
'•  and  it  seems  to  me  that  you'll  have  to  be 
guided  by  circumstances.  At  any  rate,  I  shall 
see  her,  and  I  think  it  probable  that  I  shall 
tell  her  all  that  I've  heard  from  you  about 
poor  Kane.  For,  dear  Basil,  I  have  come  to 
pity  that  poor  man,  with  his  undeserved  re 
morse,  and  his  ruined  life ;  and  my  sympathy 
with  you  makes  me  look  upon  him  with  some 
thing  of  your  feelings,  Basil  dear." 

"  Kane  is  the  noblest  man  I  have  ever  met 
•with,"  said  Blake. 

"Poor  fellow!"  sighed  Mrs.  Wyverfee. 
"And  only  think  that,  while  poor  Clara  is, 
after  all,  really  alive,  she  is  the  same  as  dead 
to  him.'; 

"  Well,"  said  Blake,  "  the  more  I  think  of 
it,  the  more  I  feel  that  Kane  ought  to  know 
it.  At  the  worst,  it  cannot  be  so  bad  as  his 
present  belief.  He  thinks  now  that  he  is 
little  better  than  a  murderer ;  if  he  were  to 
know  that  she  did  not  die,  he  might  have 
more  peace  of  mind,  even  though  she  could 
never  be  his." 

"I  am  quite  of  your  opinion,  Basil  dear, 
quite,"  said  Mrs.  Wyverne. 

They  now  went  on  to  talk  of  many  things, 
and  more  particularly  about  this  Seme  Mor~ 
daunt,  whose  exact  position  amid  all  these 
affairs  Mrs.  Wyverne  was  anxious  to  ascertain. 
She  therefore  made  very  particular  inquiries 
about  her  personal  appearance,  manner,  tone, 
accent,  etc.,  and  gradually  a  light  began  to 
dawn  on  her  mind. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

A     DISCOVERY. 

BLAKE  had  reasons  of  his  own  for  keeping 
his  escape  a  secret.  He  therefore  did  not  go 
out  of  the  house,  even  though  he  needed  ex 
ercise,  but  quietly  waited  till  he  was  strong 
enough  to  travel.  He  did  not  know  but  that 
O'Rourke,  or  rather  Kevin  Magrath,  as  he  now 


believed  him  to  be,  might  still  be  in  the  city  j 
nor  did  he  know  but  that  he  might  have  emis 
saries  abroad.  For  many  reasons  he  did  not 
wish  Magrath  to  know  that  he  was  alive  ;  and 
accordingly  he  determined  to  travel  in  disguise, 
so  as  to  guard  against  the  possibility  of  dis 
covery.  This  disguise  was  very  easily  pro 
cured — a  false  beard,  spectacles,  and  a  priest's 
dress,  being  sufficient  to  make  him  unrecog 
nizable  by  his  own  mother.  In  a  few  days 
they  set  out,  and  reached  Paris  without  any 
further  incident. 

Blake  remained  in  his  room  that  day. 
Mrs.  Wyverne  rested  a  few  hours,  and  then, 
in  the  afternoon,  went  out  with  the  intention 
of  finding  Clara.  Toward  evening  Blake  left 
the  hotel,  and  went  to  visit  Kane  Ruthven. 

Kane  was  alone.  In  answer  to  the  knock 
at  the  door  he  roared,  "  Come  in ! "  The 
door  opened,  and  a  man  entered  in  a  priest's 
dress,  for  Blake's  caution  would  not  allow 
him  as  yet  to  drop  his  disguise.  Kane  rose, 
and  looked  inquiringly  at  his  visitor,  but 
without  the  slightest  sign  of  recognition. 
Upon  this  Blake  removed  his  beard  and  spec 
tacles,  and  revealed  to  Kane  the  pale  face  of 
his  friend,  upon  which  were  still  visible  the 
marks  of  the  sufferings  through  which  he  had 
passed. 

"  Good  Lord  !  "  cried  Kane  Ruthven, 
springing  forward  and  grasping  Blake's  hands 
in  both  of  his.  "Blake,  old  fellow,  is  it 
really  you  ?  Why,  how  pale  you  are  !  " 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  looked  anxious- 
ly  at  Blake,  still  holding  his  hands. 

"  I've  had  a  hard  time  of  it,  old  fellow,'* 
said  Blake  ;  "  been  sick,  and  am  hardly  well 
yet." 

"  Ah,  that  accounts  for  your  strange  si 
lence.  Why,  I've  been  at  my  wit's  ends 
about  you.  You  decamped  suddenly,  leaving 
a  crazy,  unintelligible  letter,  and  vanished 
into  midnight  darkness.  Sick,  ah  !  So  that's 
it—but  where  ?  " 

"  You've  just  said  it,"  said  Blake,  solemn 
ly.     "  I  vanished  into  midnight  darkness." 
"  I  don't  understand  you." 
"Well,   perhaps  I'd  better  tell   you  all 
about  myself,  for  I  want  to  get  your  assist 
ance,  old  boy.     You're  the  very  man  I  need 
now,  and  you're  the  only  man." 

"  You  may  rely  upon  me  to  no  end  of  an 
extent,  my  boy,"  said  Kane,  earnestly.  "  But 
come,  sit  down  now.  We've  given  queer 
confidences  to  one  another  in  this  room,  and 


A   DISCOVERY. 


it  looks  as  though  this  would  be  the  queerest. 
But  you'll  take  something,  won't  you  ?.  " 
"  Thanks— no." 
"  What— not  even  ale  ?  " 
"  Well,  perhaps  a  glass  of  ale  wouldn't  be 
unwelcome,"  said  Blake,  taking  his  seat  on 
the   sofa.      Kane  at  once  poured  out    the 
draught,  and  Blake  slowly  drank  it.     There 
upon  Kane  offered  a  pipe,  which,  however, 
Blake  refused. 

Kane  now  sat  down,  and  Blake  told  him 
the  whole  story.  He  listened  in  a  state  of 
mind  which  was  made  up  of  astonishment 
and  horror,  and  said  not  a  single  word. 

After  this,  Blake  proceeded  to  give  him 
the  outlines  of  his  mother's  story,  without 
hinting,  however,  at  the  fact  of  Clara's  flight 
and  subsequent  life.  This  he  did  not  feel 
prepared  as  yet  to  divulge.  He  merely 
wished  Kane  to  understand  what  he  had 
learned  about  his  own  birth,  and  about  that 
of  Inez ;  to  explain  the  character  of  Kev 
in  Magrath,  and  try  identifying  him  with 
O'Rourke,  to  disclose  the  motive  which  had 
animated  his  betrayer. 

The  effect  of  all  this  upon  Kane  was  tre 
mendous.  The  last  phase  which  his  opinion 
about  Magrath  had  undergone  was  ore  of 
reverence.  He  had  sought  him  out  as  a  cul 
prit  ;  he  had  pleaded  his  own  cause  before 
him  as  before  a  judge  ;  he  had  humbly  and 
most  gratefully  listened  to  his  acquittal,  and 
had  received  the  grasp  of  his  hand  as  a  sym 
bol  of  the  forgiveness  of  some  superior  being. 
Now,  in  the  light  of  Blake's  story,  Kevin  Ma 
grath  stood  at  last  revealed  in  his  own  true 
character — a  villain,  cold-blooded,  remorse 
less,  terrible ! 

But  with  this  discovery  there  came  a 
throng  of  thoughts  so  painful  that  he  hardly 
dared  to  entertain  them.  At  once  he  thought 
of  Inez — of  Bessie — now  in  the  power  of  this 
man,  who  could  take  them  where  he  wished, 
since  they  had  been  formally  intrusted  to 
him  by  their  best  friends  —  by  Kane  and 
Gwyn — the  husband,  the  brother  ;  thus  hand 
ing  them  both  over  unsuspectingly  into  his 
keeping.  The  terror  of  this  thought  was  too 
much. 

Blake  saw  the  horror  of  Kane's  soul,  and 
understood  at  once  that  his  story  had  served 
to  arouse  within  his  friend  feelings  and  trou 
bles  that  were  connected  with  himself,  and 
that  some  new  grief  had  arisen  before  Kane 
out  of  the  light  of  this  revelation.  What  it 


was  he  could  not  conjecture.  He  thought  at 
first  that  Kane's  troubles  perhaps  referred  to 
Clara  ;  and  then  he  thought  that  they  might 
be  connected  with  Inez.  For  already  Blake's 
speculation  upon  Magrath's  course  had  made 
him  think  that  his  next  victim  might  be  Inez. 
And  now  the  sight  of  Kane's  agitation  made 
him  feel  so  sure  at  last  that  Inez  was  really 
involved,  that  he  was  afraid  to  ask,  for  fear 
that  he  might  learn  the  truth  that  he  dreaded 
to  hear. 

There  was  now  a  long  silence.  Each  had 
much  to  say,  but  did  not  know  how  to  say  it. 
In  the  mind  of  each  there  was  that  which  he 
dreaded  to  rmike  known  to  the  other. 

Kane  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 
"  Settled  in  Rome  !  for  good— for  good  ! " 
he  repeated,  recalling  the  statement  of  Ma 
grath—"  settled  in  Rome  for  good  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  "  asked 
Blake,  in  surprise. 

"  It  was  what  I  heard  about  you." 
"About  me  ?  "  cried  Blake.  "  "  Who  said 
it?" 

"  What  horrible  irony !  What  cold-blood 
ed,  remorseless  humor — for  he  had  a  sense  of 
humor — the  humor  of  a  demon  ;  and  I  can 
imagine  him  enjoying  this,  all  by  himself— 
'  settled  down— yes,  down— in  Rome— and  for 
goodT" 

"  There's  only  one  man  that  could  have 
said  that  of  me.  What  do  you  mean  ?  Have 
you  seen  him  ?  " 

Blake  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  The 
danger  was  growing  greater,  and  drawing 
nearer  to  Inez. 

"  Only  one  man— yes,"  said  Kane.  "  Of 
course  ;  you  are  right.  Your  O'Rourke  must 
be  Kevin  Magrath,  and  he  was  the- man  that 
said  that  of  you." 

Blake  started  to  his  feet. 
"  Have  you  seen  him  ?  " 
"  Yes,"  said  Kane,  solemnly. 
"  You  know  something,  that  you're  hold 
ing  back,"  said  Blake,  in  feverish  excitement. 
"Magrath  has  been  doing  something  more, 
which  you  know  of;  and  now,  since  I  have 
told  you  his  true  character,  you  are  horrified. 
There  is  danger  abroad,  to  which  friends  of 
yours  are  exposed — are  they  friends  of  mine, 
too  ?  " 

Before  Kane  could  answer,  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  door.  Blake  looked  impatiently 
around.  It  was  Gwyn.  Kane  introduced 
them  to  one  another,  and  explained  Gwyn's 


212 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


position  as  the  husband  of  the  young  lady 
whom  he  had  known  as  Bessie  Mordaunt. 

"Before  I  answer  your  last  question, 
Blake,"  said  Kane,  "let  me  explain  all  this 
horrible  business  to  my  brother  here,  for  I 
assure  you  he  is  as  deeply  concerned  in  what 
you  ask  about  as  you  yourself  are— perhaps 
more  so." 

At  this  Blake  regarded  Gwyn  with  sad 
curiosity.  Kane's  words  meant  that  he  was 
implicated,  probably  as  Bessie's  husband,  and 
that  if  there  was  danger  to  Inez,  Bessie  was 
also  involved.  He  was  now  content  to  ex- 
plain  all  to  Gwyn,  so  as  to  have  his  coopera 
tion  in  any  duty  that  might  now*  arise  before 
them,  and  also  to  get  the  benefit  of  any  ad 
vice  which  one  so  deeply  interested  might  be 
able  to  give. 

Gwyn  had  never  experienced  any  of  those 
alternations  of  opinion  about  Kevin  Magrath 
which  had  been  felt  by  Kane ;  indeed,  he  had 
not  thought  much  about  him,  inasmuch  as  he 
had  only  known  him  for  the  last  few  days. 
During  that  time  he  had  thought  of  him  as 
rather  an  eccentric,  but  still  a  good  man,  and 
had  only  objected  to  him  on  the  ground  that 
he  formed  one  of  those  who  were  taking  Bes 
sie  from  him.  But  now,  as  he  learned  the 
truth  about  this  man,  and  reflected  that  he 
had  allowed  Bessie  to  go  with  him — thinking 
also  that  Bessie,  as  one  of  the  Mordaunts, 
might  be  implicated  in  the  fate  of  those 
whom  he  yet  believed  to  be  her  sisters— a 
great  fear  arose  in  his  heart,  and  he  sat  look 
ing  at  the  others  in  mute  horror. 

«  He he — could  not  harm  her — he — loves 

her — she  always  called  him  her  dear  grandpa, 
you  know,"  faltered  Gwyn,  at  last. 

"  Is  your  wife  with  him  ?  "  asked  Blake, 
rightly  interpreting  the  meaning  of  those 
words. 

"Yes,"  said  Kane,  "and  Inez,  too." 

At  this,  Blake  said  not  a  word.  lie  had 
dreaded  it;  he  had  expected  it;  but  was 
none  the  less  overwhelmed  when  he  actually 
heard  it. 

"It's  a  mixed-up  story,  and  the  devil  him 
self  couldn't  have  worked  with  more  patient, 
cold-blooded  craft,"  said  Kane.  "I  didn't 
like  to  tell  you,  and  I  don't  like  to  now,  but 
Inez  has  had  a  hard  time  of  it." 

"  Go  on,"  said  Blake,  in  a  whisper. 

Upon  this,  Kane  told  Blake  the  whole 
Story  of  Inez — her  imprisonment,  her  escape, 
his  meeting  with  her,  his  journey  to  Ruthven, 


and  Bessie's  departure  to  meet  her  friend, 
followed  by  himself  and  Gwyn.  Some  of  this 
was  news  to  G\vyn,  for  he  had  not  known  be 
fore  the  name  of  the  man  who  had  entrapped 
Inez.  It  only  added  to  his  terrors  about  Bes 
sie.  To  Blake  this  was  all  too  fearfully  in 
telligible.  The  long,  deep,  patient  plot  was 
characteristic  of  Kevin  Magrath.  He  chose 
to  lead  his  victims  to  destruction,  as  his 
mother  had  said,  by  a  purely  natural  proces?, 
by  their  own  act  and  consent,  so  that  he  should 
be  himself  free  from  danger.  What  more? 
Had  Inez  and  Bessie  now  gone  with  him  vol 
untarily  to  destruction  ?  He  trembled  to  hear. 

The  rest  was  soon  told.  The  story  of 
Clara's  grave  in  Rome,  of  the  removal  of  her 
remains  —  all  was  horrible.  He  knew  well 
how  false  it  was.  He  could  not  tell  Kane 
even  then  the  truth  about  Clara,  so  as  to  show 
Kane  and  Gwyn  its  complete  untruth.  He 
could  scarcely  use  his  faculties,  and  it  seemed 
as  though  his  strength  of  mind  and  body, 
which  had  been  so  severely  tried  of  late,  was 
about  to  give  way  utterly  under  this  new  blow. 

"  They're  lost ! "  he  cried  at  last.  "  There's 
no  such  grave — in  all — Rome." 

Kane  looked  at  him  as  though  he  would 
read  his  soul. 

"  Her  father,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  which 
was  tremulous  with  agitation  at  a  frightful 
suspicion  which  came  to  him — "  her  father — 
had  her — her  remains  buried— by  the  side 
of  her  mother — in  the  Catacombs." 

"  The  Catacombs  ! "  groaned  Blake.  "  0 
God  !  The  Catacombs  !  0  Heavens  !  don't 
you  know  what  that  means  ?  " 

At  this  both  Kane  and  Gwyn  shuddered. 

"Stop!"  said  Kane,  in  a  hoarse  voice, 
"don't  be  too  fast  —  you  don't  know — she 
was  taken  away  from  Pere-la  Chaise." 

"She  was  not,"  cried  Blake,  who  could 
not  say  any  more. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Kane. 

"  Go  and  ask  the  keeper — go  to  the  ceme 
tery  now — ask  him  if  any  such  a  removal  has 
taken  place,"  gasped  Blake. 

"  By  Heavens,  I  will ! "  cried  Kane.  "  He 
had  persuaded  me.  I  too  was  going  to  the 
Catacombs,  to  pray  at  her  grave.  I  will  go 
this  very  instant  and  see — "  He  hurried  out 
of  the  room,  and  banged  the  door  after  him, 
in  the  middle  of  his  sentence. 

Blake  and  Gwyn  sat  there  in  silence,  over 
whelmed  by  the  anguish  of  the  new  fear  that 
had  arisen  in  their  minds.  Of  the  two,  Blake 


A  DISCOVERY. 


213 


was  in  the  deeper  despair,  for  he  knew  all. 
Gwyn's  knowledge  was  imperfect,  and  he 
could  not  help  consoling  himself  by  the  be 
lief  which  he  had  in  Magrath's  affection  for 
Bessie.  She  had  always  spoken  of  him  in 
fondest  language.  She  rested  in  his  affection 
now  with  the  undoubting  confidence  of  a 
child.  Inez  showed  nothing  of  such  a  senti 
ment.  Bessie  seemed  to  appropriate  Magrath 
as  her  own — as  if  he  was  her  father.  More 
over,  once  before,  when  he  had  been  able  to 
injure  Bessie,  he  had  spared  her,  and  it  was 
for  Inez  alone  that  he  had  spread  his  snares. 
Out  of  all  this  he  could  not  help  reaching  the 
conclusion  that  Bessie  was  perfectly  safe,  and 
Inez  alone  in  peril. 

That  Inez  was  in  peril  he  had  no  doubt. 
What  then  ?     What  part  was  Bessie  des 
tined  to  pl;iy  ?     Was  her  presence  any  pro 
tection  to  Inez  ?     If  so,  why  should  Magrath 
allow   her   to   go?      Perhaps    Magrath    was 
making  use  of  Bessie  to  work  out  his  will  on 
Inez  the  more  surely.     Perhaps  he  was  usin"1 
Bessie  as  a  decoy.     Perhaps — the  thoughts 
that  came  to  him  now  were  such  as  filled  him 
with  horror.     Once  more  the  terrible  recol 
lection  came  of  Ruthven  Towers,  of  Bessie 
with  her  frightful  suggestions,  of  that  appall 
ing  moment  when  she  stood  before  him  on 
the  top  of  the  cliff  and  seemed  a  beautiful 
demon— the  Tempter  in  the  form  of  an  angel 
— in  the  form  of  one  whom  he  loved  dearer 
than  life.      The  remembrance  was  anguish  ; 
and  once  more  there  went  on  within  him  a 
struggle  of  soul  something   like  that  which 
had  torn  him  as  he  fought  down  the  tempta 
tion.      But   the   evil  thought  once  indulged 
could  not  easily  be  dismissed,  nor  could  the 
one  of  whom  he  had  once  formed  suspicions 
become  ever  again  altogether  free  from  their 
recurrence.      The   thought  which    had   once 
made  him  strike  her  senseless  was  not  to  be 
destroyed,  nor  could  Bessie  ever  be  immacu- 
late  again.      Circumstances  suggested  them 
selves  to  his  mind,  and  tormented  him  by  the 
horrible  coloring  which  they  gave  to  her  ac 
tions  :  her  flight  from  Ruthven  Towers  ;  her 
bringing  Inez  once  more  into  Magrath's  power ; 
her  refusal  to  return  to  her  husband  ;  her  de 
parture  with  Inez  and  Magrath,  and  to  Rome, 
and  to  the  Catacombs ;  her  last  words  remind 
ing  him  that  he  must  bring  Kane  too.     Was 
it  only  to  draw  Kane  to  Rome  that  she  wished 
him   to  come?     Was  she  trying  to  make  a 
decoy  of  him  ?  and,  since  she  had  failed  in 


her  first  temptation,  had  she  resorted  to  one 
which  was  more  insidious  ?  And  why  ?  De 
stroy  Kane,  and  Ruthven  Towers  would  be 
his;  destroy  Inez,  and  Mordaunt  Manor  would 
be  hers !— A  groan  burst  from  him  in  his 
agony  ;  he  started  to  his  feet,  and  paced  the 
room  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  Blake. 

But  Blake  himself  had  too  much  to  think 
of  to  give  any  attention  to  his  companion. 
Kane  had  gone,  and  he  knew  what  news  he 
would  bring  back.  What  then?  He  must 
act.  How  ?  When  ?  How  long  was  it  since 
they  had  started  for  Rome  ?  Could  he  over 
take  them  ? 

Clara's  grave  !     The  Catacombs  !     Abhor- 
rent,  appalling   thought!     The  Catacombs! 
And  Kevin  Magrath  was  now  leading  Inez  to 
that  place  of  horror — ihe  place  to  which  he 
had  been  led.     And  Inez  was  going  of  her 
own  free  will,  as  he  had  gone ;  drawn  there 
as  he  had  been  drawn,  by  an  overpowering 
motive.     Avarice  had  drawn  him;  Love  was 
drawing  her.     He  had  gone  to  find  the  treas 
ure  of  the  Caesars  ;  she  was  going  to  pray  at 
a  sister's  grave.     What  damnable  art  was  it 
that  enabled   this   man  to    destroy  the  just 
suspicions  of  others  ? — and,  after  all    that  he 
had  done  to  Inez,  to  win  her  confidence,  and 
even  that  of  a  world-worn  man  like  Kane? 
Was  he,  too,  intending  to  go  down  into  the 
Catacombs   with    Kevin    Magrath?      Would 
not  he,  too,  wish  to  pray  at   Clara's  grave  ? 
And  Gwyn  Ruthven  !     Was  ho,  too,  doomed  ? 
What  part  had  his  wife  in   all   this  ?     Why 
did  she  leave  her  young  husband  who  loved 
icr?     What  had  she  to  do  with   the   3!or- 
daunts  ?      What    connection   was    there   be 
tween  her  and  Magrath  ?     His  mother  knew 
that  she  was  not  a  Mordaunt,  or  al  least  not 
of  the  family  of  Bernal  Mordaunt.     Was  she 
true,  and  deceived ;  or  a  deceiver,  false  like 
Magrath  ?     Or  was  she  a  decoy  used  by  Ma 
grath,  though  innocent  herself? 

Blake's  thoughts  about  Bessie  wore  bit 
ter;  and  present  circumstances,  combined 
with  what  he  had  heard  from  Gwyn  and  Kane 
about  her,  had  already  created  suspicions  in 
his  mind  which  he  had  not  cared  or  dared  to 
express.  In  his  own  thoughts  he  doubted 
her;  he  feared  the  worst  about  her.  Thus,  in 
this  present  terrible  moment,  it  was  Bessie's 
hard  fortune  to  be  the  subject  of  the  gravest 
and  darkest  suspicion,  not  only  in  the  mind 
of  Blake,  but  even  in  that  of  her  husband. 
At  length,  after  a  long  absence,  Kane  re- 


214 


AN    OPEN   QUESTION. 


turned.     His  face  wore  a  very  strange  expres 
sion. 

"  Well  ?  "  cried  Blake. 
"  It  is  gone,"  said  Kane,  slowly. 
"What!" 

"It  is  true.  Her  —  remains  —  were  ex 
humed—and  taken  away.  I  saw  the  keeper, 
who  showed  me  the  books  of  record — and  I 
— visited  the  grave." 

He  flung  himself  into  a  chair  by  the  table 
and  buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 

Blake  was  bewildered,  but  a  moment's  re 
flection  explained  all. 

"  It  is  part  of  that  villain's  consummate 
and  most  painstaking  style  of  action.  He 
always  works  in  what  he  would  call  a  scien 
tific  or  artistic  manner.  Yes,  he  has  certain 
ly  exhumed — something — and — " 
Kane  started  up  and  stared. 
"  This  is  the  second  time,"  he  said,  with 
deep  agitation,  "  that  you  have  spoken  about 
— about  her  —  in  that  tone.  In  Heaven's 
name,  Blake,  what  is  it  ?  What  am  I  to  un 
derstand  ?  " 

"  Tone  ?  "    said  Blake,   confusedly, 
was  not  conscious  of  speaking  in  any  partic 
ular  tone." 

With  a  disappointed  look,  Kane  sat  down 
again. 

"  We  must  act,  or  I  must,  and  at  once," 
cried  Blake.     "  Tell  me— have  I  time  ?  " 
Gwyn  and  Kane  looked  at  one  another. 
"  I  tell  you  his  removal  of— of  that — is 
only  to  make  his  work  more  thorough.     He 
•will  have  something  to  show  them." 
Kane  looked  up. 

"  That  is  what  I  mean  by  your  tone.  I 
can't  understand  you,  but  I  see  how  agitated 
you  are.  I'll  talk  about  it  to-morrow.  But 
if  you  are  going  to  do  any  thing,  Gwyn  and  I 
will  help  you.  Magrath  left  for  Rome  yester 
day  morning  only,  with  Inez  and  Bessie. 
Gwyn  wanted  me  to  leave  with  him  to-mor 
row,  but  I  was  going  to  remain  a  week  or 
two.  Still,  as  things  are  now,  we  ouglit  all 
of  us  to  leave  by  the  very  next  train." 

"  Will  you  go  ?— that's  right,"  said  Blake. 
"  Yesterday  morning ! — and  Magrath  is  prompt 
in  his  acts  always ;  but  this  time  he  may  be 
more  leisurely  about  it,  he  may  not  suspect 
pursuit.  He  knows  nothing  of  my  escape. 
No — no — I  think  he  will  go  about  this  work 
*eisurely,  and  assist  those  of  you  who  wish  to 
— descend  into  the  Catacombs — and  pray  at 
Clara's  tomb. — When  does  the  next  train  go, 


to-night?  Can't  we  start  at  once?  I  will 
go  now.  I'll  only  stop  a  minute  to  write  a 
few  lines  to  my  mother." 

"  Wait,  Blake,  boy,"  said  Kane,  as  Blake, 
after  these  incoherent  words,  arose  and 
walked  to  the  door.  "  There's  no  train  till 
morning.  We  had  better  all  leave  at  the 
same  time.  You  can  write  your  letter  here, 
or  you'll  have  time  to  go  and  see  your  moth 
er  yourself."* 

"No;  I  won't  go  and  see  her,"  said 
Blake.  "  She  would  make  objections,  and 
all  that,  or  insist  on  coming  with  me.  No. 
I'll  write  her,  and  if  you  can  find  some  one  to 
take  it  to  her  address,  I'll  be  obliged." 

Kane  now  offered  Blake  some  writing-ma 
terials,  and  he  wrote  very  hurriedly  the  fol 
lowing  letter : 

"DEAR  MOTHER:  I  have  heard  the  very 
worst.  Inez  has  fallen  into  the  hands  of 
Kevin  Magrath,  who  has  taken  her  to  Rome. 
You  know  what  that  means.  I  am  going 
back  there  by  the  first  train  to-morrow  morn 
ing,  in  the  faint  hope  of  being  able  to  save 
her.  If  you  have  any  news  about  Clara,  you 
had  better  come  on  also.  Kane  Ruthven 
and  his  brother  Gwyn  are  going  to  accompany 
me.  I  have  said  nothing  to  Kane  about  Clara. 
"  If  you  come  to  Rome  you  will  find  me, 
or  hear  of  me  at  the  old  lodgings. 

"  Your  affectionate  son, 

"  BASIL." 


CHAPTER  LIT. 

CLARA    MORDATJNT. 

MRS.  WYVERNE  had  gone  out  for  the  pur 
pose  of  finding  Clara,  and  went  at  once  to 
the  place  which  had  been  her  last  address. 
It  was  an  ordinary  house,  which  was  occupied 
by  some  Sisters  of  Charity,  among  whom  Cla 
ra  had  cast  in  her  lot.  She  hoped  to  find  her 
here  yet ;  and,  on  asking  for  her,  she  found, 
to  her  great  relief,  that  she  was  within. 

Mrs.  Wyverne's  story  to  Blake  has  already 
shown  that  Clara  was  not  dead,  as  Kane  had 
supposed.  To  Kane  the  thought  of  her  being 
actually  alive  was  not  admissible.  The  mem 
ory  of  that  one  great  tragedy  obscured  all 
else,  and  he  was  incapable  of  seriously  con 
sidering  that  theory  which  Blake  had  sug 
gested,  namely,  that  Clara  had  escaped  as  he 
himself  had.  But,  to  Mrs.  Wyverne,  the  liv- 


CLARA  MOKDAUNT. 


215 


ing  Clara  was  the  most  familiar  thought  ii 
the  world ;  and,  what  to  Kane  was  supernat 
ural,  to  her  was  in  the  highest  degree  nat 
oral. 

She  was  at  once  admitted,  and  in  a  few 
moments  Clara  herself  made  her  appearance, 
and  with  a  cry  of  joy  caught  her  in  her  arms, 
and  kissed  ner  again  and  again,  uttering  at 
the  same  time  many  exclamations  of  affection, 
of  gratitude,  and  of  delight.  Mrs.  Wyverne 
herself  was  moved  by  such  emotion  on  the 
part  of  Clara,  and  was  rejoiced  to  perceive 
these  signs  of  a  warm  human  sympathy  and 
a  tender  loving  nature  in  one  who  might  have 
been  expected  to  have  grown  indifferent  to 
worldly  ties. 

Clara  took  her  to  her  own  chamber,  in 
forming  her  that  in  this  house  they  were  less 
strict  in  their  regulations  than  in  other  places, 
and  that  various  privileges  were  allowed  of 
intimate  association  with  friends  or  relatives. 
It  was  a  plainly-furnished  room,  with  a  single 
window  looking  out  upon  the  street.  Here 
they  were  alone  together,  and  could  say  what 
they  wished  without  interruption. 

Clara  was  dressed  as  a  Sister  of  Charity 
and  the  simple  costume  served  in  her  case  t< 
give  an  additional  charm  to  her  graceful  fig 
ure,  and  to  the  beautiful  and  still  youthfu, 
face.  She  had  an  extraordinary  resemblance 
to  Inez,  having  generally  the  same  feature 
and  the  same  family  peculiarity.  But,  with 
Clara,  there  was  a  deeper  melancholy  visible; 
in  her  eyes  and  in  her  face  there  were  the 
manifest  traces  of  long  and  severe  suffering 
Inez,  after  her  escape  from  prison,  and  while 
just  arising  from  a  bed  of  sickness,  thin  and 
pale  from  suffering,  had  seemed  to  him  the 
counterpart  of  his  lost  Clara;  but  the  real 
Clara  had  in  her  face  a  sadness  such  as  Inez 
had  never  shown,  for  her  sufferings  had  been 
deeper,  and  more  intense,  and  more  pro- 
longed. 

At  first  the  conversation  was  taken  up 
with  anxious  inquiries  about  one  another's 
health,  and  questions  about  what  each  had 
been  doing  since  their  last  meeting.  Clara 
professed  to  have  lived  her  usual  life,  but 
Mrs.  Wyverne  was  more  frank;  and,  begin- 
ning  with  the  recital  of  her  own  troubles,  she 
at  length  went  on  by  degrees  to  unfold  all 
that  series  of  events  which  had  been  going 
on,  and  with  which  Clara  herself  was  so  inti 
mately  connected.  Mrs.  Wyverne  did  this 
cautiously  and  gradually,  and  now  for  the 


first  time  Clara  learned  the  full  measure  of 
her  own  rights,  the  extent  of  her  wrongs  the 
sufferings   of  those    near    relatives   of  here 
whom  she  had  not  seen  since  childhood,  but 
whose  names  and  fortunes  now  awakened  an 
intense  interest;  and,, finally,  the  machina 
tions  of  Magrath,  which  had  first  been  direct 
ed  against  herself,  and  of  late  had  turned 
against  her  sister  Inez.    All  this  awakened 
deep  emotion  within  her,  but  this  was  sur 
passed  by  the  feelings  that  were  aroused  when 
Mrs.  Wyverne  brought  forward  the  mention  of 
Kane  Ruthven.     Kane  Ruthven  was  the  inti 
mate  friend  of  Mrs.  Wyverne's  son.    That  son, 
just  escaping  from  unparalleled  dangers,  was 
even  now  about  to  visit  Kane  Ruthven.    This 
Kane  Ruthven,  also,  her  husband,  had  been 
subject  to  remorse  for  years  on  her  account,  and 
was  still  mourning  over  her  as  dead.    All  this 
came  out,  and   Clara  listened  with  intense 
emotion,  pouring  forth   a   torrent   of  eager 
questions,  and,  forgetting  every  thing  else, 
evinced  an  insatiable  longing  to  know  every 
hing  that  Mrs.  Wyverne   could  tell  about 
him. 

On  former  interviews  Clara  had  been  mere 
ly  a  despairing  mourner,  weary  of  the  world, 
seeking  solace  only  in  the  life  which  she  had 
adopted,  reticent  about  her  past,  shunning 
every  allusion  to  it.     Xow,  the  revelations 
which  Mrs.  Wyverne  brought  her  broke  down 
all  her  reticence,  and  poured  over  her  soul  a 
flood  of  memories  which  overwhelmed  her. 
It  was  not  the  fact  that  Kane  Ruthven  was 
alive,  not  the  fact  that  he  was  living  in  Paris 
that  impressed  her,  but  rather  the  fact  that 
he  was  suffering,  and  for  her;  that  he  was 
bearing  this  load  of  remorse,  and  enduring 
these  stings  of  conscience,  on  her  account" 
the  fact  that  he  so  clung  to  his  memories  of 
her,  that  he  was,  even  now,  living  a  life  which 
was  arranged  with  reference  to  her,  and  that 
he  was  associating  her  in  all  his  thoughts  with 
the  angels  of  heaven. 

All  her  reserve  broke  down,  and  she  was 
now  eager  to  tell  Mrs.  Wyverne  her  own 
story,  eager  to  ask  Mrs.  Wyverne's  advice 
about  what  she  ought  to  do.  The  story 
which  she  had  to  tell  referred  to  that  event 
already  narrated  to  Blake  by  Kane,  but,  as  it 
regarded  it  from  her  point  of  view,  it  may  be 
^epeated  here. 

She  began  by  describing  her  earliest  rec- 
)llections,  which  were  vague  reminiscences 
>f  splendid  homes  in  England  and  in  Italy. 


216 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


Then  came  the  death  of  her  mother  and  the 
loss  of  her  father ;  then  a  home  among  stran 
gers,  ending  with  her  departure  to  Paris,  and 
her  entrance  into  a  boarding-school.  Here 
she  was  allowed  unusual  liberties,  became 
acquainted  with  various  people,  and  at  length 
fell  in  with  Kane  Ruthven,  and  consented  to 
marrv  him. 

"'But  oh  I  dear  Mrs.  Wyverne,"  she  con 
tinued,  "  you  may  imagine  what  a  child  I  was, 
what  a  poor  little  child,  when  I  tell  you  that, 
in  picking  up  my  small  valise  to  fly,  I  actually 
put  in  a  doll— I  was  passionately  fond  of  dolls 
—and  a  multitude  of  little  scraps  of  silk,  and 
odds  and  ends  of  colored  ribbons.  Oh,  dear 
Mrs.  Wyverne,  I  could  cry  over  the  remem 
brance  of  my  utter  childishness  and  inno 
cence,  if  it  were  not  that  I  have  other  memo 
ries  that  arc  too  deep  for  tears. 

"  Well,  we  were  married,  and  then  we 
travelled  everywhere.  We  went  to  Italy,  and 
finally  came  back  to  Paris  through  Germany. 
We  had  been  gone  about  three  months,  I 
think.  Those  three  months  were  perfect 
happiness.  Kane  was  passionately  fond  of 
me,  and  I  was  far  happier  than  ever  I  had 
been  in  all  my  life.  His  love  was  perfect  ad 
oration.  He  seemed  not  to  have  one  single 
thought  that  was  not  about  me;  and,  as  for 
myself,  I  idolized  him. 

"  Well,  we  came  back  to  Paris,  and  lived 
there  for  several  months.  We  enjoyed  life 
to  the  very  uttermost.  Day  followed  day, 
and  week  followed  week,  and  month  followed 
month,  so  rapidly  that  I  was  amazed  at  the 
quick  flight  of  time. 

"  Well,  one  day,  there  came  a  break  in  all 
this.  I  learned  that  my  guardian  had  cast 
me  off.  I  did  not  know  any  thing  about  my 
inheritance.  I  only  thought  it  was  a  very, 
very  cruel  thing  for  him  to  do.  He  wrote 
Kane  a  terrible  letter,  and  Kane  felt  cut  to 
the  heart,  though  he  tried  as  hard  as  he  could 
to  hide  from  me  how  he  felt  it,  but  I  could 
easily  perceive  it.  1  knew  by  that  time  every 
varying  expression  of  his  noble  and  lordly 
face,  and  every  intonation  of  his  voice  so  well, 
that  any  change  was  at  once  perceptible. 
However,  he  had  great  power  over  himself, 
and  in  a  short  time  he  succeeded  in  regaining 
his  former  flow  of  spirits. 

"  At  last  there  came  one  memorable  day. 
He  had  gone  out  early  in  the  morning.  He 
came  back  at  about  ten  o'clock— we  then 
breakfasted.  I  noticed  a  certain  trouble  in 


his  face,  which  he  was  trying  to  hide  by  as 
sumed  gayety.  I  tried  to  quell  my  anxiety, 
but  at  length  could  restrain  myself  no  longer, 
and  I  went  over  to  him,  and  put  my  arms 
around  him.  He  pressed  me  clcse  to  his 
heart  in  silence. 

"  '  Oh,  my  dear  love ! '  I  asked,  «  what  is 
it?' 

"  '  Nothing,'  said  he. 

"  I  then  implored  him  to  tell  me,  but,  in 
stead  of  doing  so,  he  gently  withdrew  him 
self,  and  went  away,  and  sat  down  by  a  win 
dow  in  silence.  At  such  apparent  coldness 
as  this,  I  was  quite  overcome.  '  0  Kane ! '  I 
cried,  'has  it  come  to  this! — has  it  come  to 
this!'  At  this  he  started,  and  leaving  his 
seat  he  came  over  to  me,  and  stood  looking 
at  me  with  a  mild,  sweet,  loving,  and  com 
passionate  smile — looking  like  some  protect 
ing  divinity ;  yet  still,  behind  all  this,  I  could 
not  help  seeing  that  lurking  expression  of 
trouble. 

"  '  Not  love  you  ! '  he  said — '  love ! '  and 
then  he  gave  a  little  laugh.  *  My  darling  ! ' 
he  continued,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  '  I  do  not 
believe  that  there  are  any  other  men  in  the 
world  just  now  who  know  what  it  is  to  love, 
as  I  know  it.' 

"  At  this,  I  rose,  and  threw  myself  in  his 
arms,  and  cried.  Tears  were  in  his  eyes,  too 

and  those  tears  made  me  cry  all  the  more. 

But  at  last  he  regained  his  composure,  and 
began  to  talk  to  me  again.  He  then  told  me 
all— the  whole  truth.  He  informed  me  that, 
when  we  married,  he  had  a  certain  amount 
of  money — that  his  love  was  so  great  that  he 
determined  to  make  my  life  nothing  but  hap 
piness.  How  well  he  had  done  that,  I  have 
told  you.  But,  in  doing  this,  he  had  spent 
every  thing — and  on  that  morning  he  was 
destitute.  Besides  this,  he  was  in  debt.  Credit 
ors  were  persecuting  him — even  the  landlord 
joined  with  them,  and  had  threatened  to  turn 
us  out.  We  were  to  be  turned  out  into  the 
streets — or,  rather,  I  was  to  be  turned  out 
alone,  for  he  was  in  danger  of  arrest  and  im 
prisonment. 

"  Upon  this,  I  was  eager  to  know  what  he 
proposed  to  do,  and  in  an  anguish  of  fear  I 
asked  him  if  he  was  thinking  of  leaving  me. 

"  '  Never,  never !  Leave  you,  darimg  ? — 
never,  never ! '  he  cried,  with  wild  impetuosity. 
*  Never — it  all  depends  upon  you — if  you  will 
come  with  me  where  I  go.' 

"  '  Oh ! '  I  cried,  '  why  do  you  talk  so  ?— 


CLARA  MORDAUNT. 


217 


as  if  I  wouldn't  go  all  over  the  world  with 

you.' 

"  At  this,  he  looked  at  me  with  so  strange 

an  expression  that  I  actually  felt  frightened. 

For  a  long  time  he  regarded  me  in  silence — 

I  was  bewildered   and    terrified,    and   didn't 

know  what  to  think. 

"  '  Over  the  world,'  he  said,  in  a  whisper, 

bending  down  lower,  and  still  holding  me  in 

his  arms — ' over  the  world? — 0  my  darling! 

— I  know  you  would  do  that — but  would  you 

do  more  than  that  ?  ' 

"  '  Do  more  than  that  ?  *  I  faltered. 

"  '  Would  you — would  you  ?  '  he  said  ;  and 

then  he  hesitated. 

"  '  Would  I  what?  '  I  asked,  breathlessly. 
"  He  bent  his  head  down  lower  yet,  and 
whispered  in  my  ear: 

111  Darling  I  would  you  go  with  me  out  of 
the  world? ' 

"  0  dear  Mrs.  Wyverne !  how  can  I  tell 
you  the  unutterable  horror  that  there  was  in 
that   question?     The   whisper   hissed    itself 
through  me  ;   and  every  nerve  and  every  fibre 
tingled  nnd  thrilled  at  its  awful  meaning.     I 
felt  paralyzed.     1  did  not  say  one  single  word. 
He,  on  his  part,  went  talking  on  in  a  strange, 
wild  way,  and  was  too  intent  on  framing  some 
argument   for  persuading   me  to  notice  the 
perfect  agony  of  fear  that  this  proposal  had  | 
given  me.— To   die  !     Oh  !  to  die !   and  I  so 
young !  and  when  I  had  been  so  happy !     This 
was   my   only  thought.     Remember   what   a 
child  I  was.     And  to  die  !  and  so  suddenly ! 
Oh,  horror  of  horrors  !    And  worse,  to  admin 
ister  death  to   myself!      0  dear,  dear  Mrs. 
Wyverne  !  how  can  I  possibly  tell  you  the 
utter  anguish  of  such  a  thought? — Well,  he 
went  on  speaking  more,  but  I  didn't  hear  a 
word,  or,   at  least,  I  didn't  understand,  you 
know,  for  I  was  really  quite  stupefied.     But  I 
gathered,  in  a  vague  way,  from  what  he  said, 
that  he  had  aJl  along  been  looking  forward  to 
this,  and  that  he  had  decided  what  to  do. 
For  himself,  he  was  calm;  but  he  felt  uncer 
tain  about  mo,  and  had  not  dared  to  mention 
it  before.     He  had  gone  out  that  morning  to 
buy  the  drug  that  would  furnish  the  deadly 
.draught.     This  he  showed  me.     The  sight  of 
it  had  the  same  effect  on  me  which  the  sight 
of  the  gallows  may  have  on  the  condemned 
criminal.     But   he  was   too   much  taken  up 
with  his  own  thoughts  to  notice  my  horror; 
and  so  he  went  on,  working  himself  up  into 
an  eloquent  rhapsody — in  which  he  described 


the  joys  of  the  spiritual  state,  and  of  the  world 
beyond  the  grave.  But  oh!  his  words  fell 
only  upon  the  dull,  dead  ears  of  a  terrified 
and  panic-stricken  girl. 

"At  length  he  made  a  proposal  that  each 
should  pour  it  out  for  the  other,  or  I  made  it 
in  my  despair— I  forget  which.     He  himself 
was  in  a  very  peculiar  mood  by  this  time; 
he  was  at  once  so  absorbed   in  the  purpose 
over  which  he  had  brooded  so  long,  and  at  the 
same  time  so  taken  up  with  his  own  thoughts, 
that  I  saw  the  utter  uselessness  of  any  thing 
like  remonstrance.     I  only  thought  of  evasion 
— not  of  resistance;  so  I  caught   at  once  at 
the  plan  of  pouring  out  a  draught  for  myself, 
and  in  this  way  I  hoped  to  escape  this  terrible 
fate  which  he  was  meditating  for  me.     So  I 
got  up,  and  stammered  something  about  get 
ting  the  glasses.     He  smiled,  and  said  nothing, 
but  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair.     His  face 
was  turned  from  me.     With  a  trembling  hand 
I  poured  out  some  wine  in  a  glass,  and,  taking 
this  in  one  hand,  I  took  two  empty  glasses  in 
the  other,  and  then  went  back  very  sofily; 
stooping  down,  I  put  the  glass  of  wine  under 
the   place   where   I  had  been  sitting  on  the 
sofa.     Then  I  handed  him  the  empty  glasses ; 
he  took  them  with  an  abstracted  air  and  an 
enthusiastic  smile.  Then  he  made  me  sit  down. 
"Then  he  poured  out  the  draught  in  each 
glass,  and  handed  one  to  me.     I  took  it— my 
hand  trembling  so  that  I  could  scarcely  hold 
it,  and  looked  at  him  as  he  sat  there  with  his 
eyes  turned  toward  me ;  but  his  eyes  seemed 
fixed  on  vacancy,  with  that  same  excited  and 
abstracted  look  which  I  have  already   men 
tioned. 

"'Now,'  said  he,  after  some  silence — 
'now — my  own  darling — we  both  hold  in 
our  hands  the  means  of  escape  from  the 
darkness  of  poverty  and  the  sorrow  of  life  ! 
Come,  let  us  both  drink  together,  and  so  pass 
away.  When  I  raise  my  glass,  do  you  raise 
yours,  and  thus  we  shall  drink  together,  and 
—die ! ' 

"  At  this  a  fresh  anguish  of  despair  rushed 
through  me.  I  was  filled  with  horror,  and  in 
that  last  moment  of  agony  a  sudden  thought 
came  to  me. 

"'  What  is  the  matter,  my  darling?'  he 
asked,  noticing  my  agitation. 

"  '  Oh,  hark  !  oh,  listen  ! '  I  cried.  <  There 
is  some  one  at  the  door.' 

"He  started,  and  rose  and  went  to  the 
door.  The  moment  his  back  was  turned,  I 


218 


AN   OPEN    QUESTION. 


hastily  changed  the  glass  of  poison  for  that 
of  wine  which  was  under  me.  By  the  time 
that  I  had  done  this,  he  had  come  back. 

"  '  You  are  excited,'  he  said.     '  There  is 
no  one  there.' 

"  With  these  words  he  resumed  his  seat. 
On  his  noble  face  I  saw  a  glow  of  lofty  en 
thusiasm,  and,  as  he  fastened  his  eyes  on  me, 
they  glowed  with  unutterable  tenderness. 
There  was  also  the  moisture  of  tears  in  his 
eyes,  and  there  was  a  smile  on  his  lips.  He 
held  his  glass  in  his  left  hand,  while  his  right 
hand  took  mine.  I  noticed  at  that  awful  mo 
ment  how  warm  his  hand  was,  and  how  steady. 
It  was  the  warmth  and  steadiness  of  perfect 
coolness  and  perfect  health;  but  my  band 
was  as  cold  as  ice,  and  clammy,  and  tremu 
lous,  for  I  was  shuddering  and  shivering  in 
excitement  and  fear.  We  sat  in  this  way  for 
a  moment  or  two,  and  then  he  said : 
"  4  Now  ! ' 

"  Ha  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips.  I  did 
the  same.  We  both  drank  at  the  same  time. 
Each  of  us  drank,  and  oh,  how  different  in 
each  case !  Then  we  put  down  the  glasses, 
and  still  sat  there  in  the  same  position.  How 
long  we  sat  I  cannot  tell,  for  my  brain  was  in 
a  whirl,  and  a  dark  horror  was  over  me.  I 
had  escaped  death,  but  I  was  losing  him  who 
wa-s  dearer  than  life.  With  my  woman's  love 
and  yearning  over  him,  there  was  a  child's 
panic  fear  of  death  and  its  accompaniments. 
At  length  his  grasp  began  to  relax.  He  fell 
forward  against  me.  I  gave  a  shriek.  I  had 
a  wild  idea  of  going  for  help,  and  a  wilder 
idea  of  flight ;  and  so,  with  my  mind  almost 
in  a  state  of  delirium,  I  rushed  from  the 
room,  and  fled  I  hardly  knew  where. 

"  I  remember  getting  lodgings,  and  writ 
ing  to  you,  the  only  friend  I  had  in  all  the 
world,  and  you  came,  and  you  nursed  me, 
but  I  have  never  told  you  thi^  till  now." 

Clara  paused  here  for  some  time,  and  at 
length  resumed: 

"  Well,  dear,  you  know  how  I  was.  Think 
ing  only  of  Kane's  death,  I  gave  myself  up 
to  despair.  Life  had  lost  all  its  value,  and  I 
only  wished  to  find  some  occupation  where  I 
might  also  have  the  consolations  of  religion. 
Tliis  I  found  among  those  dear  Sisters  among 
whom  I  came  to  live  and  to  work. 

"  Well,  now,  dear,  I  must  mention  a  dis 
covery  that 'I  made.  It  was  about  a  year 
after  this  event.  I  was  nursing  at  a  hos 
pital,  and  by  the  merest  accident  I  heard  of 


the  case  of  a  man  who  had  been  poisoned 
and  sent  here.  The  poison  was  too  weak,  or 
the  amount  was  too  small,  and  the  work  was 
not  done.  I  was  struck  by  this  very  forcibly, 
and  on  inquiry  found  out  the  date  and  the 
place.  It  was  the  date  of  our  tragedy,  and 
the  place,  too.  They  had  not  found  out  his 
name,  but  I  knew  that  this  patient  could  be 
no  other  than  Kane.  He  had  recovered  !  He 
had  gone  away  !  He  had  not  died  !  He  was 
alive!  I  cannot  possibly  convey  to  you, 
dear,  the  slightest  idea  of  my  feelings  at  such 
an  astonishing  discovery. 

"After  that  I  was  in  a  constant  state  of 
watchfulness.     I  was  on  the  lookout  for  him 
everywhere.     Years  passed,  however,  and  I 
never  saw  him.     At  last  I  gave  him  up,  and 
concluded  that  he  had  gone   away,  though, 
after  all,  I  could  not  help  indulging  the  hope 
of  meeting  him  again.     You  have  mentioned 
his   strange  fancies   about  me,   dear.     You 
now  understand,  and  I  can  understand  ;  we 
met  by  chance.     He  had   come  back  here. 
The  first  time  was  at  Notre-Dame,  the  next  in 
the  rail-cars,  the  next  on  the  street.     On  each 
of  those  occasions  I  was  as  much  affected  as 
he  was.     The  first  meeting  showed  me  that 
he  was  alive,  though  I  knew  not  where  to 
find  him.     This  thought  filled  my  mind  to  the 
exclusion  of  every  thing  else.     The  second 
meeting   only   confirmed    this   thought,  and 
made  me  think  also  that  he  knew  of  my  es- 
cape  from  the  fate  that  he  had  prepared  for  me. 
"  But  oh !  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  suf 
fered.     I  had  grown  reconciled  to  this  life. 
The  discovery  that  he  was  alive  destroyed  all 
my  peace  of  mind.     It  brought  back  all  my 
past.     Above  all,  I  was  filled  with  shame  at 
the  thought  of  the  deceit  of  which  I  had  been 
guilty.     I  had  saved  my  life  by  a  cowardly 
trick.     He  had  gone,  in  good  faith,  to  death, 
as  he  supposed ;  and  had  thought  that  I  loved 
him  well  enough  to  go  with  him.     But  I  did 
not.     I  was  a  coward,  and  in  my  terror  I  had 
deceived  him.     I  dared  not  meet  him.     I  was 
terrified  at  the  sight  of  him,  even  though  I 
longed  to  tell  him  all.     One  evening  I  saw 
him  seated  in  the  street  in  front  of  a  cafer 
and  I  caught  his  look.     It  seemed  to  me  that 
he  was  regarding  me  with  a  stern,  reproach 
ful  glance.     I  almost  fainted  in  ut  ter  anguish ; 
but  I  managed  to  reach  my  home.     At  an- 
other  time  I  saw  him  at  a  distance.     I  fol 
lowed  him,  with  a  vague  idea  of  accosting 
him.    I  followed  him  to  the  cemetery  of 


GOING  TO  PRAY  AT  CLARA'S  GRAVE. 


Pere-la-Chaise,  and  watched  him  for  hours.  I 
saw  him  kneeling  before  a  tomb.  I  wondered 
very  much,  and  looked  at  him  for  .a  long  time 
from  a  hiding-place.  At  last  I  ventured  forth 
a  little,  and  he  looked  up  and  saw  me.  I 
shrank  back  again,  and  was  so  terrified  that 
I  remained  there  all  night  long.  This  ex 
plains  to  you  all  about  our  meetings,  which 
he,  poor  fellow  !  thought  were  supernatural ; 
and  you  see,  too,  dear,  and  you  can  under 
stand,  the  reason  why  I  was  too  frightened  to 
make  myself  known  to  him. 

"  But  oh  !  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  own 
sense  of  dishonor — if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
feeling  which  I  had  that  I  had  deceived  him, 
and  that  he  would  never  forgive  it,  how  gladly 
I  would  have  told  him  all !  But  I  dared  not. 
I  was  afraid.  I  knew  so  well  his  lofty  na 
ture,  and  remembered  so  well  his  proud  con 
fidence  in  me.  And  now,  even  now,  0  dear 
Mrs.  Wyverne  ! — even  now — even  now— how 
can  I  even  now  let  him  know  ?  Will  he  not 
utterly  despise  me  ?  He  feels  remorse  now 
for  an  imaginary  crime,  and  I  long  to  save 
him  from  this  ;  but  how  can  I,  when  to  do  so 
will  only  change  his  feelings  from  remorse  to 
contempt  ?  Oh,  how  I  wish  that  I  knew  what 
to  do!" 

Mrs.  Wyverne   wondered   very   much    at 
Clara's  language,  not  so  much,  indeed,  at  the 
feelings  which  she  expressed  about  what  she 
called  her  cowardice  as  at  the  evident  long 
ings  which  she   possessed   after  a   husband 
from  whom  her  vows  must  have   separated 
her.  Nor,  indeed,  could  she  help  mentioning  it. 
"  Ah,  Mrs.  Wyverne,"  said  Clara,  "  there 
is  something  yet  to  be  told.     I  am  not  alto 
gether  a  Sister.     I  found  out  that  he  had  not 
died  in  less  than  a  year  after  I  had  joined 
them,  and  this  always  influenced  my  position 
here.     For  a  married  woman  cannot  become 
a  Sister  without  the  formal  consent  of  her 
husband,  and  in  my  case  this  was  out  of  the 
question.     Besides,  my  case  was  so  very  pe 
culiar,  you  know.     I  entered  their  house  with 
the  full  intention  of  becoming  a  Sister,  for  I 
thought  he  was  dead,  but  the  discovery  that 
he  was  not  prevented  my  taking  the  vows. 
But  the  Sisters  knew  that  I  had  come  with 
the  intention  of  doing  so,  under  the  impres 
sion  that  I  was  a  widow.     They  knew  my  cir 
cumstances,  they  all  pitied  me,  and  so  they 
Lave  made  allowances  for  me,  and  permitted 
me  to  remain." 

This  information  set  Mrs.  Wyverne  thinking. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

GOING   TO   PRAY    AT    CLARA'S    GRAVE. 

BESSIE  and  Inez  were  in  a  comfortable 
apartment  in  an  ancient  house  in  Rome.  The 
ancient  house  was  that  one  which  had  been 
described  to  Blake  as  having  been  recently 
obtained  ;  but  the  appearance  of  the  interior 
gave  indications  of  a  long  occupation.  The 
room  in  which  they  were  was  filled  with  an 
tique  furniture,  and  looked  out  upon  a  court 
yard,  surrounded  by  venerable  walls,  with  a 
grotesque  fountain  in  the  midst. 

"What  a  very  particularly  quaint  old 
house  this  is,  Inez  darling,  isn't  it  ?  and  did 
you  ever  see  such  a  dear  old  place — so  an 
cient — so  stately — such  massive  walls  ?  And 
sure  there's  a  kind  of  solemnity  about  it  that's 
fairly  delightful,  so  it  is." 

"  Yes,"  said  Inez ;  "  I  really  never  saw 
such  a  perfect  reproduction  of  the  romance 
of  the  middle  ages." 

'Sure,  but  it  isn't  romance,  then,  that 
I'm  thinking  of,  at  all  at  all,  Inez  darling  ;  but 
it's  religion,  so  it  is.  I  don't  feel  like  being 
in  a  feudal  castle  ;  but  much  more  like  being 
in  some  sweet,  placid  convent,  where  I'm  set 
tled  for  the  rest  of  my  days.  And  sure  and 
it  wouldn't  take  much  to  make  me  now  con 
sent  to  be  made  a  nun  of,  and  take  the  veil 
on  the  spot,  so  it  wouldn't." 

"  That  would  be  rather  too  rash  a  thing, 
Bessie  dear,"  said  Inez,  with  a  smile,  "  for 
a  bride  hardly  out  of  her  honey-moon." 

"  Sure,  and  didn't  I  run  away  from  poor 
old  Gwynnie  for  the  sake  of  friendship  ?  and 
mightn't  I  run  aAvay  from  him  again  for  the 
sake  of  religion?^' 

"Not  very  likely,  I  fancy,  dear,"  said 
Inez,  who  was  much  amused  at  such  an  idea 
entering  the  head  of  so  loving  a  wife  as 
Bessie. 

Bessie  was  silent  and  pensive  for  some 
time.  Her  glorious  blue  eyes  were  veiled  by 
their  heavy  lashes,  and  were  downcast  and 
sad,  while  over  the  youthful  beauty  of  her 
face  there  was  a  gentle  melancholy,  \Uiich 
threw  around  her  a  touching  grace  and 
charm. 

"And  0  Inez  darling!"  said  she,  at 
length,  in  a  low  voice,  "  doesn't  it  seem 
sweet,  then,  to  you,  to  think  of  those  dear 
ones  reposing  in  that  holy  place  that  dear 
grandpa  has  told  us  so  much  about  ?  " 


220 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


"  It  does  seem  sweet,"  said  Inez.  "  I  had 
heard  in  a  vague  way  of  the  Roman  Cata 
combs,  but  never  knew  what  they  really  were. 
I  had  an  idea  that  they  were  dangerous  and 
dreadful." 

"  Sure,  that's  from  the  silly  romances  that 
we've  read.  But  dear  grandpa  has  known 
them  all  his  life,  so  he  has;  and  oh,  but  it's 
the  holy  man  that  he  is  himself,  with  his  long 
life  of  fasting  suid  devotion ;  and  it's  the 
great  friend  he  was  of  our  dear  papa,  Inez 
dear !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Inez  ;  "  they  must  have  been 
congenial  spirits.  I  only  wish  I  had  known 
him  before.  What  a  beautiful  enthusiasm 
he  has  for  the  saintly  type  of  human  charac 
ter — the  monks  cf  the  middle  ages;  and  how 
he  manages  to  kindle  the  same  feelings  in  an 
other  !  I  feel  it,  and  I  know  you  do  too, 
Bessie  dear,  for  that  was  what  made  you 
make  your  remark  just  now  about  wishing  to 
take  the  veil." 

"Sv.re  and  I  don't  deny,  then,  that  it  was 
just  that  same,  Inez  dear  ;  and  really  it  would 
be  so  charming,  you  know ;  but  then,  poor 
dear  Gwynnic  would  go  on  so,  and  be  so  sad, 
that  I'm  afraid  I  should  not  have  the  courage 
to  do  it." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  said  Inez. 

"Well,"  said  Bessie,  "it  must  be.  the 
prospect  of  going  to  that  sacred  place  that 
gives  me  these  feelings.  I've  been  fasting 
all  day,  and  preparing  myself.  I  could  not 
go  there  as  I  would  go  to  a  picture-gallery.  I 
go  to  the  graves  of  my  nearest  and  dearest 
ones,  so  I  do  ;  and  sure  I  hope  that  we  may 
be  buried  there  some  day,  Inez  darling — don't 
you,  dear  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear ;  I  can  thmk  of  no  sweeter 
burial-place." 

At  this  instant  Kevin  Magrath  entered  the 
room,  and  Inez  and  Bessie  both  rose  with 
pleasant  smiles  to  meet  him.  He  regarded 
them  both  with  that  genial  smile  of  his, 
which  was  benignant,  tender,  and  pater 
nal. 

"  Well,  my  dear  gyerruls,"  said  he,  in  a 
tone  of  gentle  melancholy,  "  you  may  get 
ready  now,  and  don't  forget  to  put  on  some 
thing  warrum,  for  I  wouldn't  like  ye's  to  catch 
cold.  In  the  hot  summer  even,  whin  people 
go  down  to  saunter  about  for  the  afternoon, 
ye'll  see  thim  all  dressed  like  Russians,  so  ye 
will." 

"  Oh,  you  have  warned  us  enough,  grand 


pa  dearest,"  said  Bessie.  "  We'll  be  careful, 
never  fear." 

Leaving  the  room,  they  completed  their 
preparation?,  and  soon  returned.  Kevin  Ma 
grath  then  led  the  way,  and  they  followed 
him.  Reaching  the  lower  floor,  he  lighted 
three  lanterns,  each  of  which  gave  a  most 
brilliant  glow,  and  then  descended  into  the 
cellar,  followed  by  the  two.  Not  the  slightest 
hesitation  was  shown  by  cither  of  them.  The 
lustre  of  the  lamps  illumined  the  cellar  most 
brilliantly,  and  the  look  which  they  cast 
about  the  place  showed  nothing  more  than 
curiosity  and  interest.  The  opening  into  the 
place  was  very  much  larger  than  it  had  been 
at  Blake's  visit,  for  the  lower  tombs  had  been 
knocked  away,  and  it  was  thus  large  enough 
for  Inez  or  Bessie  to  enter  with  only  a  slight 
inclination  of  their  heads.  There  was  also  a 
small  door,  with  a  lock,  with  which  the  open 
ing  could  be  closed.  The  door  was  very  mas 
sive,  and  so  was  the  frame. 

Kevin  Magrath  stopped  for  a  short  time, 
and  looked  at  Inez  and  Bessie. 

"  Ye're  about  to  inter  a  holy  place,"  said 
he.  "  It's  a  place  that  will  not  inspire  alar- 
rum  after  what  I've  told  ye's  ;  but  it  will 
surely  give  ye's  a  sintimint  of  solimn  awe — 
from  the  sacred,  the  riviriutial,  and  the  vin- 
irible  associations  around.  Ye'll  see  numer 
ous  passages  ;  but  ye  can't  lose  yer  way  with 
me ;  and,  as  to  the  solichude,  why,  it's  only 
apparint,  for  there's  plenty  here  moving 
about,  and  ye'll  meet  hundreds,  so  ye  will, 
before  ye  get  out." 

With  these  words  he  passed  through  the 
opening,  and  Bessie  and  Inez  came  after 
him. 

"  There's  nothing  more  ilivating  in  life," 
said  Magrath,  standing  still  and  looking 
around,  "  thin  a  visit  to  this  sanctified  spot. 
There's  a  certain  divine  charm m  here  that 
imprissis  ivery  mind.  I've  alriddy  told  ye 
the  whole  history  of  this  place,  its  nature, 
uses,  offices,  ixtint — so  I  need  say  no  more  on 
that.  But  now,  dear  gyerruls,  before  we  go 
further,  let  us  pause  and  indivor  to  achune 
our  minds  to  the  grandeur  of  the  place ;  let 
us  feel  that  we  are  surrounded  on  ivery  side 
by  a  great  cloud  of  witnisses." 

After  waiting  a  little  while,  he  proceeded 
at  a  slow  pace,  and  Inez  and  Bessie  followed. 
Their  eyes  rested  on  those  same  scenes  which 
Blake  had  viewed  before,  in  this  same  com- 
pany.  The  lights  shone  bright,  but  died 


GOING  TO  PEAY  AT   CLARA'S  GRAVE. 


221 


away  in  the  gloom  before  and  behind.  After 
a  while  Magrath  walked  closer  to  them,  and 
made  remarks  from  time  to  time  in  accord 
ance  with  the  nature  of  the  surrounding 
scene. 

"It's  a  holy  place,"  said  he.  "Even  the 
very  dusc  is  holy,  so  it  is.  These  passage 
ways  were  ixcavated  by  the  hands,  worrun  by 
the  feet,  and  hallowed  by  the  blissid  rilics  of 
apostles,  saints,  martyrs,  confissors,  virgins, 
and  holy  mnocints ;  yes,  here  we  have,  in  very 
deed  around  us,  the  goodly  fellowship  of  the 
saints,  the  glorious  company  of  the  apostles, 
and  the  white-robed  army  of  martyrs ;  here, 
too,  above  ail,  we  shall  see  the  last  risting- 
place  of  those  who  were  so  dear  to  us. 

"  See  there,''  said  he,  pointing  to  a  small 
tablet ;  "  it's  u  cnild-martyr,  and  sure,  but 
it's  a  touching  t/iing  intirely  to  think  of  these 
child-martyrs — buried  here — but  ye'll  be  hav 
ing  plinty  of  opportunities  to  see  thira  all 
yit,  Inez  darling,  so  ye  will — so  we  won't  stop 
now." 

In  this  way  they  went  on  till  they  reached 
the  first  cross-passage. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  ye  observe  what  I  told 
ye — regyard  this  passage-way — it's  a  cross- 
street,  as  it  were ;  the  right  hand  brings  ye  to 
the  crypt  of  the  Chiese  di  San  Pictro  in  car- 
cere,  while  the  left  one  runs  to  Chiese  di  Gcsu. 
This  is  the  true  holy  city— this  subterranean 
Rome ;  this  is  the  tirristrial  Jerusalem,  with 
its  population  of  martyrs—the  true  Zion  that 
I  love.  And  here  come  all  thim  that  pray 
for  the  peace  of  Jerusalem ;  here  resort  thim 
that  are  weary  of  the  vanities  of  the  upper 
wurruld,  to  hold  commune  with  the  spirits  of 
the  departed.  All  these  paths  lead  to  churches, 
or  sometimes  to  houses  that  have  easy  con- 
nection  with  the  streets  above,  so  that  ye  can 
start  in  hot  weather  and  visit  a  friend  by  tak 
ing  one  of  these  underground  streets.  Ye'll 
yet  see  these  passages  thronged,  so  ye  will — 
yis,  with  busy  life  too.  I've  seen  hundreds 
here — yis,  thousands,  so  I  have." 

At  length  they  reached  that  place  which 
Blake  had  known  as  the  Painted  Chamber. 

"Here,"  said  Magrath,  "is  one  of  the 
cintral  points  from  which  sanctity  seems  to 
be  irradiated  all  around.  We  are  not  far 
from  our  distinction,  so  let  us  wait  here  for  a 
momint,  to  prepare  our  minds  for  the  last. 
There's  a  solimnity  about  this  place  that  nivcr 

fails  to  impriss  me — an  awe  I  always  feel 

and  never  have  I  felt  it  stronger  than  now. 
15 


Look,  Inez  darling ;  look,  Bessie  jool,  at  thim 
painted  walls.  These  walls  speak,  and  see 
what  a  past  they  tell  about." 

Inez  and  Bessie  looked  around,  and  gazed 
with  deep  interest  upon  the  objects  visible 
there,  and  listened  to  the  explanations  of 
their  guide.  As  for  Magrath,  he  seemed  to 
lose  himself  in  his  lofty  theme,  and  rose 
every  moment  to  a  higher  strain  of  eloquent 
rhapsodizing. 

"Ye  must  contimplate  the  Christian  wor- 
ruld  in  the  times  of  persecution,"  said  he. 
"  In  those  times  the  Catacombs  opened  before 
them  as  a  city  of  rifuge.  Her*  lay  the  bones 
of  their  fathers  who,  from  gineration  to  gin- 
eration,  had  fought  and  died  for  the  truth. 
Here  they  brought  their  rilitives  as  one  by 
one  they  died.  Here  the  son  had  borrun  the 
body  of  his  aged  parint,  and  the  parint  had 
seen  his  child  committed  to  the  tomb.  Here 
they  had  carried  the  mangled  remains  of  those 
who  had  been  torn  by  the  wild  beasts  of  the 
arena,  the  blackened  corpses  of  those  that 
had  been  committed  to  the  flames,  or  the 
wasted  forruma  of  those  most  miserable,  who 
had  sighed  out  their  lives  amid  the  lingering 
agonies  of  crucifixion.  The  place  was  hal 
lowed,  and  it  was  no  wonder  that  they  should 
seek  for  refuge  here. 

"Here,  thin,  the  persecuted  Christians 
turruned,  and  they  peopled  these  paths  and 
grottoes— by  day  assimbling  to  exchange 
words  of  cheer  and  comfort,  or  to  bewail  the 
death  of  some  new  martyr;  by  night  sinding 
forth  the  boldest  among  thim,  like  a  forlorrun 
hope,  to  learrun  tidings  of  the  upper  worruld, 
or  to  bring  down  the  blood-stained  bodies  of 
some  new  victim.  So  they  saved  thimsilves, 
but  at  what  a  cost! 

"Yis,  at  what  a  cost— living  here  amid 
the  damp  vapors  and  the  dinse  smoke  of  their 
torches!  Sure  to  glory,  but  to  me  the  Roman 
spirit  that  enjured  all  this  towers  up  to 
grander  proportions  than  were  ever  attained 
in  the  days  of  the  republic.  The  fortichude 
of  Regulus,  the  devotion  of  Curtius,  the  con 
stancy  of  Brutus,  were  here  surpassed,  not 
by  the  strong  man,  but  by  the  tindir  virgin 
and  the  weak  child.  And  thus,  scorruning 
to  yield  to  the  fiercest  powers  of  persecution, 
these  min  went  forth,  the  good,  the  pure  in 
heart,  the  great,  the  brave.  For  thim,  death 
had  no  terrors,  nor  that  appalling  life  in  death 
which  they  had  to  enjure  here  in  this  subter 
ranean  worruld. 


222 


AX  OPEX  QUESTION. 


"  Look  around  ye's  now.  What  is  it  that 
ye  see  ?  Ye  behold  the  tokins,  the  imblims, 
of  the  thoughts  and  feelings  that  animated 
thim,  and  the  constant  efforts  which  they 
made  to  console  their  minds  by  rifirince  to 
shupernatural  truths.  In  that  ancient  wor- 
ruld,  ye'll  remimber,  art  was  cultivated  and 
cherished  more  ginerally  than  in  the  modern 
worruld.  Wherever  any  number  of  min  and 
women  gathered  together,  an  imminse  propor 
tion  had  the  taste  and  the  talint  for  art. 
Whin  the  Christians  peopled  the  Catacombs, 
the  artist  was  here  too,  and  his  art  was  not 
unemployed.  These  chambers  were  to  the 
Christian  population  like  squares  amid  the 
narrow  streets  around ;  and  here  it  was  that 
they  made  efforts  for  addorunmint.  So,  ye 
see,  they  covered  the  walls  with  white  stucco, 
and  they  painted  on  thim  pictures  of  the 
saints  and  martyrs,  the  apostles  and  prophets, 
the  confissors  and  witnesses  for  the  truth. 
If,  in  the  hour  of  bitter  anguish,  they  sought 
for  scenes  or  for  thoughts  that  might  relieve 
their  souls  and  projuce  fresh  strength  within 
thim,  they  could  have  found  no  other  objects 
to  look  upon,  so  strong  to  encourage,  so 
mighty  to  console. 

"  Yis,  in  these  graves  around  me,"  he  con 
tinued,  rising  to  a  higher  strain  of  enthusi 
asm,  "  I  behold  the  remains  of  those  who  ili- 
ivated  humanity ;  of  whom  the  worruld  was 
not  worthy.  They  lived  at  a  time  whin,  to 
be  a  Christian,  was  to  risk  one's  life.  They 
did  not  shrink,  but  boldly  proclaimed  their 
faith,  and  acciptid  the  consequinces.  They 
drew  a  broad  line  between  thimsilves  and  the 
heathin,  and  stood  manfully  on  their  own 
side.  To  utter  a  few  words,  to  perforrum  a 
simple  act,  could  always  save  from  impinding 
death ;  but  the  tongue  refused  to  speak  the 
formula,  and  the  stubborn  hand  refused  to 
power  the  libation.  They  took  up  the  cross, 
and  bore  the  reproach.  That  cross  was  not 
a  figure  of  speech,  as  it  now  is  in  these  days 
of  emasculated  Christianity.  Witness  these 
names  of  martyrs — these  words  of  anguish ! 
These  walls  have  carried  down  to  us,  through 
the  ages,  the  words  of  grief,  of  lamentation, 
of  ever-changing  feeling,  which  were  marked 
upon  them  by  those  who  once  sought  rifuge 
here.  They  tell  their  mourrunful  story  to  us 
in  these  latter  days,  and  raise  up  before  our 
imagination  the  forrums,  the  feelings,  and 
the  acts  of  those  who  were  imprisoned  here. 
And,  just  as  the  forrums  of  life  are  taken  up 


on  the  plates  of  the  camera,  so  has  the  great 
voice,  once  forced  out  by  suffering  from  the 
very  soul  of  the  martyr,  become  stamped  up 
on  these  walls  all  around  us  wheriver  we  tur- 
run  our  eyes." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then,  clasp, 
ing  his  hands,  looked  with  a  rapt  gaze  at  va 
cancy,  and  burst  forth : 

"  Yis,  ye  humble  witnisses  of  the  truth, 
poor,  despised,  forlorrun,  and  forsaken,  in 
vain  your  calls  for  mercy  wint  forth  to  the 
ears  of  man :  they  were  stifled  in  the  blood 
of  the  slaughter  and  ia  the  smoke  of  the 
sacrifice !  Yet,  where  your  own  race  only 
answered  your  cry  of  despair  with  fresh  tor- 
ramints,  these  rocky  walls  proved  more  mer 
ciful  ;  they  heard  your  cries,  they  took  thim 
to  their  bosoms,  and  so  your  words  of  suffer 
ing  live  here,  trisured  up  and  graven  in  the 
rock  foriver ! 

"  Ah,  my  childrin !  ah,  Inez  darling !  Bes 
sie  jool !  let  your  imagination  have  full  swing, 
and  try  to  bring  before  yer  mind's  eyes  the 
truth  of  these  surroundings.  Contimplate 
thim  as  they  once  were.  Ye'll  see  these  pas 
sages  not  left  to  the  silent  slumber  of  the 
dead,  but  filled  with  thousands  of  the  living. 
Wan,  and  pale,  and  sad,  and  oppressed,  they 
find,  even  amid  this  darkness,  a  better  fate 
than  that  which  awaits  them  in  the  worruld 
above-ground.  Busy  life  animates  the  haunts 
of  the  dead ;  these  pathways  ring  to  the  sound 
of  human  voices.  The  light  of  truth  and 
virtue,  banished  from  the  upper  air,  burruns 
anew  with  a  purer  rajiance  in  this  subterra 
nean  gloom  !  The  tender  greetings  of  affic- 
tion,  of  frindship,  of  kinship,  and  of  love, 
arise  amid  the  mowldering  remains  of  the  de 
parted.  Here  the  tear  of  grief  bejews  the 
blood  of  the  martyr,  and  the  hand  of  affic- 
tion  wraps  his  pale  limbs  in  the  shroud.  Here 
in  these  grottoes  the  heroic  soul  rises  up  shu- 
perior  to  sorrow.  Hope  and  faith  smile  ex- 
ultingly,  and  the  voice  of  praise  breathes  it 
self  forth  from  the  lips  of  the  mourrun- 
er!" 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  was  silent  for 
some  time. 

"  Sure  but  it's  rhapsodical  I  am  intirely, 
dear  gyerruls,"  said  he,  at  last,  "  but  I  can't 
help  it.  Whiniver  I  get  upon  these  themes  I 
am  carried  away  beyond  mysilf.  I  ought  to 
have  held  me  tongue,  and  given  meself  up  to 
contimplation.  But  it's  difficult  to  be  calm 
amid  such  scenes  as  these." 


GOING  TO  PRAY  AT  CLARA'S  GRAVE. 


223 


But  Inez  assured  him  that  she  loved  tc 
hear  him  talk  in  this  way  in  such  a  place,  anc 
that  she  could  have  listened  far  longer  with 
delight  and  with  instruction. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  he,  "  it's  very  kind  for 
you  to  say  that,  so  it  is,  and  I  know  how 
amiable  ye  are  intirely,  but — I'm  thinking  ] 
wint  a  little  beyond  ye ;  ho wandiver,  we  needn' 
be  losing  time,  so  let's  go  on  now,  in  the  hop< 
that  our  minds'll  be  in  fitting  trim  for  the 
sacred  juties  and  holy  contimplations  that  lie 
befower  us.  Come  on,  dear  gyerruls — come 
on,  Inez  darling — come  on,  Bessie  jool.  Fol 
low  me,  children  dear,  for  we're  close  by  the 
spot,  so  we  are." 

With  these  words  he  turned,  and,  fol 
lowed  by  Inez  and  Bessie,  walked  out  of  the 
Painted  Chamber. 

Inez  followed  first  along  the  passage-way 
which  lay  between  the  Painted  Chamber  and 
that  opening  in  the  floor  into  the  realms  be 
low.  She  was  perfectly  and  utterly  fearless. 
Of  the  gloom  and  the  terrors  around  her  she 
had  not  the  faintest  idea.  She  walked  there 
as  fearlessly  as  though  she  was  walking  along 
the  Corso,  as  though  she  was  passing  up  the 
nave  of  St.  Peter's,  but  only  with  a  deeper 
solemnity,  and  a  holier  calm,  and  a  profound- 
er  awe 

This  may  easily  be  explained.  Once  she 
had  entertained  the  common  opinion  about 
the  Roman  Catacombs.  She  did  not  know 
any  thing  very  particular  about  them.  She 
had  read  about  them  in  a  general  way,  and 
in  the  course  of  her  reading  she  had  encoun 
tered  terrible  tales  of  people  who  had  been 
lost  in  these  endless  labyrinths.  But  all 
these  had  been  dismissed.  Kevin  Magrath 
had  given  her  a  different  opinion  about  them. 
From  him  she  learned  that  they  were  not 
dangerous  at  all,  but  were  a  common  resort 
of  devotees ;  that,  instead  of  being  a  series 
of  labyrinthine  passages  without  end,  they 
were  in  reality  connected  in  countless  places 
with  the  houses  above;  and  that  the  diffi 
culty  was  not  how  to  avoid  being  lost,  but 
rather  how  to  find  some  passage-way  which 
would  not  lead  into  the  cellar  of  a  house,  or 
the  crypt  of  some  church.  Thus  Inez  be 
lieved  herself  to  be  in  a  place  which  was  a 
common  resort,  a  place  where  in  every  direc 
tion  there  were  passages  leading  straight  to 
the  upper  world.  With  this  belief  fear  was 
impossible. 

But  she  had  stronger  feelings  than  this 


belief — the  feeling  of  religious  ardor  evoked 
by  the  enthusiastic  declamation  of  Magrath, 
who,  from  being  earnest,  had  grown  rhap 
sodical.  She  felt  her  soul  kindling  at  his 
vehement  words ;  she  felt  her  most  intense 
religious  fervor  evoked  by  the  thoughts  which 
he  had  called  up  of  that  sublime  past,  when 
this  was  a  city,  not  of  the  dead,  but  of  the 
living ;  when  the  faithful  sought  refuge  here 
from  persecution  ;  and  where,  amid  the  relics 
of  dead  saints,  there  stood  those  living  saints 
who  themselves  were  destined  to  swell  the 
ranks  of  the  "  white-robed  army  of  mar 
tyrs." 

Beneath  all  this  was  her  solemn  purpose 
for  which  she  had  come — the  end  of  her  pil 
grimage  to  Rome— the  graves  of  her  father, 
her  mother,  and  her  sister.  For  this  she  had 
prepared  herself,  and  this  lay  before  her. 
For  this  the  scenes  thus  far  had  only  served 
to  prepare  her  soul,  and  the  words  which  she 
had  heard  seemed  a  fitting  prelude  to  the  sol 
emn  devotions  before  her. 

Kevin  Magrath  stopped. 

Inez  looked  around. 

At  her  feet  she  saw  a  step-ladder.  A  lit 
tle  in  front  she  saw  an  opening  in  the  path, 
black,  yawning ! 

"It's  an  opening  into  a  passage  below  like 
this,"  said  Kevin  Magrath.  "  It's  down  there 
that  we're  going;  there,  Inez  darling,  they  lie 
— the  loved  ones — waiting  for  you  and  for  us. 
I  brought  the  ladder  here  this  morning.  It's 
only  a  short  distance,  and  I'll  help  ye's  both 
down  easy  enough.  Ye'll  find  it  just  the 
same  down  there  as  it  is  up  here." 

The  sight  of  this  pit  at  first  startled  Inez, 
aut  Magrath's  words  reassured  her. 

"  It  looks  dangerous,"  said  he,  "  but  peo- 
}le  always  carry  lights,  and  so  there's  niver 
ny  accidint.     Besides,  it's  only  in  out-of-the 
way  places  that  we  find  these  lower  stories. 
It's  only  a  few  feet,  too." 

Saying  this,  he  pushed  the  step-ladder 
down  into  the  opening.  It  touched  the  floor 
>elow,  and  rested  there,  with  the  top  of  it 
irojecting  a  short  distance  above. 

"  It's  a  mighty  convanient  thing  intirely," 
aid  he,  "  and  I'll  help  ye's  both  down.     You 
may  come  down  first  after  me,  Inez  darling— 
and  thin,  Bessie  jool,  I'll  fetch  you." 

With  these  words  he  descended,  and  soon 

eached  the  place  below.     He  placed  his  lan- 

ern  on  the  floor,  and  the  brrght  gleam  illu- 

inated  the  passage-way,  showing  that  it  was 


224= 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


the  counterpart  of  the  one  above.  Kevin 
Magrath  stood  and  looked  up.  There  was  a 
gentle  smile  on  his  face,  and  with  this  there 
was  an  expression  of  solemn  awe  which  was 
in  keeping  with  the  scene  around. 

"  Here,"  said  he,  "  not  far  away,  is  the 
risiing-place  of  the  loved  ones ;  here  your 
father  and  I  with  our  own  hands,  Inez  dar 
ling,  bore  the  precious  rilics  of  poor  Clara ; 
and  here  afterward  it  was  me  own  mourrun- 
ful  privilege  to — but  wait  till  I  help  ye,  dear  ; 
give  me  yer  hand  thin." 

"While  he  was  speaking  Inez  had  begun  to 
descend,  and  Magrath  stopped  short  in  his 
remarks,  to  help  her.  He  stood  on  the  lower 
step  of  the  ladder,  and  reached  out  his  hand. 
Then,  not  satisfied  with  that,  he  went  up  a 
few  steps,  holding  her  so  as  to  help  her  down. 
At  length  Inez  reached  the  floor  below. 

The  lamp  was  burning  then  brightly. 
Inez,  full  of  the  solemn  purpose  before  her, 
and  roused  up  to  a  high  enthusiasm  by  the 
scene  around,  and  by  the  events  that  had 
thus  far  occurred,  cast  one  look  up  the  path- 
way,  and  another  look  down,  and  then  stood 
waiting  for  Bessie,  with  her  eyes  downcast, 
and  her  mind  preparing  itself  for  what  was 
before  her.  So,  in  deep  abstraction,  stood 
Inez. 

Bessie  was  on  the  floor  above,  at  the  head 
of  the  ladder.  Kevin  Magrath  was  on  the 
floor  below,  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder.  He 
looked  up  and  said  nothing.  Kessie  looked 
down.  Their  eyes  met. 

"  It  makes  me  so  dizzy,  grandpa  dear," 
said  Bessie.  "It  always  makes  me  dizzy  to 
climb  ladders,  or  to  look  down  places,  so  it 
does.  Inez  was  always  awfully  brave." 

"  Dizzy  is  it  ?  Sure  to  glory  but  its  the 
big  coward  ye  are  thin,"  said  Kevin  Magrath. 
"  Sure  if  ye're  afraid,  I'll  go  up  and  carry  ye 
down  in  me  arrums,  so  I  will." 

Inez  was  standing  there.  She  held  in  her 
hands  the  lantern  which  she  had  carried. 
She  heard  these  words.  At  the  same  time 
her  eyes  were  struck  by  a  flash  of  light  in  the 
passage  at  some  distance.  There  was  also 
the  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps,  as  of  some 
one  advancing.  She  could  not  help  feeling 
some  curiosity.  That  some  one  should  be 
advancing  was  not  at  all  surprising  to  her, 
for  Kevin  Magrath  had  given  her  to  under 
stand  that  the  Catacombs  were  visited  and 
traversed  by  people  at  all  hours  of  the  day 
and  night.  These  perhaps,  she  thought, 


might  be  like  herself,  mc-urners,  visitors  to 
the  graves  of  departed  friends.  So  she  stood 
looking. 

Kevin  Magrath  was  looking  up,  his  back 
being  turned,  and  his  attention  absorbed 
with  Bessie  and  with  his  own  thoughts.  He 
had  not  seen  that  gleam  of  light,  nor  had  he 
heard  the  footsteps.  He  was  so  absorbed  in 
his  own  purposes. 

"Inez  darling,"  said  he,  not  turning  to 
face  her,  not  choosing  now  to  look  at  her, 
"  I'll  have  to  go  up  to  carry  Bessie  down. 
Sure  but  it's  the  big  coward  she  is  thin ! — 
Bessie,  jool,  if  ye  won't  come  down,  or  if  ye 
can't>  why  ye  needn't.  Wait  a  momint,  and 
I'll  bring  ye  in  me  own  arrums. — Wait  a  mo- 
mint,  Inez  darling.  It's  only  a  minute  I'll  be, 
ye  know,  and  then  we'll  rezhume  our  wan 
derings — to  the  holy  graves — and — we'll  per- 
forrum  the  last  mourrunful  rites,  so  we  will." 

He  had  spoken  slowly.  He  seemed  to 
think  that  Inez  would  be  afraid  to  have  him 
go  up  even  for  a  minute,  and  so  tried  to  re 
assure  her  and  to  strengthen  her  by  remind 
ing  her  of  the  purpose  before  her.  There 
was,  in  reality,  no  need  of  this,  since  Inez  did 
not  have  the  slightest  suspicion,  and,  from 
perfect  ignorance,  was  perfectly  fearless. 

At  this  moment  also,  and  while  he  was 
speaking,  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  an  advanc 
ing  figure  hastening  along.  A  strange  thrill 
came  over  her.  It  seemed  incredible.  She 
could  scarcely  stand.  The  figure  came  near 
er,  nearer,  nearer.  It  was  a  man,  who  was 
hurrying  at  a  rapid  run ;  he  had  a  lantern, 
which  revealed  his  form  and  face. 

The  noise  of  those  advancing  footsteps 
could  now  not  fail  to  force  itself  through 
Kevin  Magrath's  abstraction  of  soul,  into 
which  he  had  fallen  from  the  pressure  of  his 
own  purpose.  Already  he  had  one  foot  on 
the  lowest  step  of  the  ladder,  and  his  left 
hand  had  grasped  it  so  as  to  ascend,  when 
that  strange  and  startling  noise  came  to  his 
ears. 

He  stopped  and  turned. 

And  then,  full  before  him,  and  rushing 
toward  him,  he  saw  It.  Rushing  toward  him 
with  impetuous  haste,  with  a  face  ghastly 
white,  with  fierce,  eager  eyes,  with  one  hand 
holding  a  lantern,  and  the  other  hand  out 
stretched  as  if  to  strike ;  wild,  terrible,  men 
acing,  he  saw  It!  What?  The  tremendous 
apparition  of  the  man  whom  he  had  led  down 
here,  and  left  to  die  in  this  very  place  ;  from 


GOING   TO  PRAY  AT   CLARA'S   GRAVE. 


225 


whom  he  had  fled  up  this  very  opening;  th 
form  of  the  dead  ;  the  apparition  of  horror 
It  was  Basil  Wyverne;   the  man  whom  ht 
knew  to  be  dead,  but  whom  he  saw  to  be 
living— living  in  this  drear  home  of  death  ;  a 
spectacle  of  anguish  unutterable ;  a  figure  ap 
palling  and  abhorrent;  a  sight  and  a  thoughl 
that    man   might    not    face;    before    which 
Reason    trembled    and   vanished;    and    the 
strong,  remorseless  nature,  hardened  to  acts 
of  crime,  shuddered  and  sank  away. 
"Why,  Dr.  Blake!" 
It  was  the  voice  of  Inez. 
It  was  followed  by  a  gasp  and  a  groan , 
then  the  sound  of  rushing  footsteps  in  pan 
ic  flight,  and   Kevin    Magrath   disappeared, 
swallowed  up   in  thick  darkness,  while   the 
sound  of  those  footsteps  came  up  from  afar, 
lessening  gradually  till  all  was  still,  from  that 
passage  up  which  the  fabulous  Onofrio  had 
fled. 

At  the  same  moment  a  piercing  cry  came 
from  Bessie  in  the  passage-way  above.  For 
she  had  been  stooping  down  low,  and,  startled 
by  the  movement  of  Kevin  Magrath,  she  knelt 
down  and  put  her  head  lower  still,  so  as  to 
see  what  it  was  that  caused  this  agitation. 
And  in  that  one  instance  she  saw  it  all. 

The  sudden  arrival  of  Blake  upon  the 
scene  can  be  accounted  for  in  the  most  natu 
ral  manner.  He  had  hurried  to  Rome  with 
Kane  and  Gwyn,  full  of  anxiety.  He  had 
found  the  Via  dei  Conti,  and  had  recognized 
that  gloomy  building  which  had  been  pointed 
out  by  Kevin  Magrath  as  the  Monastery  of 
San  Antonio.  Turning  down  the  street  at 
the  corner,  he  went  on  until  he  had  reached 
and  fully  recognized  the  house  to  which  he 
had  been  taken  by  his  betrayer.  He  could 
find  out  nothing  about  it  now.  People  said 
that  it  was  uninhabited,  and  its  aspect  seemed 
to  confirm  the  statement. 

Kevin  Magrath  had  informed  Gwyn  that 
he  would  stop  at  the  Hotel  dell'  Europe,  but, 
on  inquiring  there,  they  could  learn  nothing 
whatever  about  him.  This  made  Blake  feel 
certain  that  he  had  taken  Inez  at  once  to 
that  house.  At  first  he  thought  of  communi 
cating  with  the  police ;  but  the  fever  of  his 
impatience  made  him  resolve  to  act  for  him 
self.  He  could  not  get  admittance  to  the 
house  by  the  door,  but  he  remembered  that 
he  could  penetrate  into  that  prison  through 
the  Catacombs.  Iron  crow-bars  and  the 
stout  arms  of  his  friends  could  soon  break 


through  into  the  cellars,  and  Inez  could  be 
reached  and  rescued  in  this  way  far  sooner 
than  by  the  movements  of  the  police. 

The  emergency  of  the  case,  and  his  new 
anxiety,  dispelled  the  terrors  of  the  Cata 
combs,  and  Kane  and  Gwyn  were  willing  to 
accompany  him.  They  took  all  the  materials 
that  were  requisite  for  their  purpose,  and  hur 
ried  to  the  mouth  of  the  Cloaca  Maxima. 
Their  movements  excited  no  attention,  for 
they  looked  like  one  of  those  exploring  parties 
which  may  often  be  met  with  in  Rome. 

In  due  time  they  came  to  the  broken 
stone,  and  passed  through.  After  this,  they 
had  to  move  more  carefully.  ^But  at  length 
Blake  discovered,  lying  on  the  floor,  some 
thing  which  gave  him  an  unmistakable  clew 
to  the  path  which  he  should  take.  It  was 
that  burnt  match  which  he  had  lighted  while 
standing  at  the  intersection  of  the  two  paths, 
when  the  light  had  revealed  the  horrible  spec 
tacle  of  his  assailants.  Here  lay  the  match, 
at  the  intersection  of  the  two  paths,  and  he 
was  able  at  once  to  take  up  the  course  which 
was  to  lead  him  back  over  the  scene  of  his 
wanderings. 

Here  the  course  was  perfectly  straight, 
and  they  at  length  reached  the  opening  above. 
Up  this  Bliike  climbed  by  means  of  those 
very  holes  which  he  had  cut  before,  when  his 
ear  caught  the  sound  of  voices,  and,  as  his 
ead  arose  above  the  opening,  he  saw  a  glow 
of  light  before  him.  He  hung  there  listening. 

It  was  Kevin  Magrath's  voice,  speaking 
n  a  high  key,  in  the  Painted  Chamber;  and 
Blake  heard  nearly  all.  He  now  knew  that 
ic  had  not  been  a  moment  too  soon,  and  that 
nez  was  already  descending  to  her  living 
,omb.  As  Kevin  Magrath  ceased,  he  le( 
imself  down  again,  and  they  hurriedly  delib 
erated  about  what  they  should  do  next.  It 

}  agreed  to  retreat,  lower  their  lamps,  and 
watch  from  a  convenient  distance.    This  they 
did,  and  from  the  gloom  around  them  they 
aw  all.     They  saw  the  ladder  come  down, 
"hey   saw    Inez  descend    first.      They    saw 
£evin   Magrath  go  away.      They  heard   all 
hat  passed  between  him  and  Bessie.     They 
card  his  last  words,  and  saw  him  prepare  to 
scend. 

Then  they  could  wait  no  longer,  and  Blake 
prang  forward  upon  his  horror-stricken 
nemy. 


226 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


CHAPTER   LIV. 

CONCLUSION. 

THE  perfect  fearlessness  of  Inez  in  this  ter 
rible  situation,  and  her  utter  unconsciousness 
of  danger,  have  already  been  explained.  Nor 
did  the  appearance  of  Blake  seem  to  her  very 
extraordinary.  Kevin  Magrath  had  given  her 
to  understand  that  the  Catacombs  were  a 
place  of  common  resort,  easily  accessible,  and, 
in  some  pasts,  actually  used  as  a  thorough 
fare  in  hot  weather.  That  Blake  should  be 
here  was  not  unaccountable.  In  a  moment 
she  accounted  for  it,  and  thought  that  Ma 
grath  must  have  told  him  of  her  presence  in 
Rome,  and  of  her  intended  visit  to  this  place. 
The  incongruity  of  a  lover's  visit,  with  this 
sacred  purpose  before  her,  was  certainly  evi 
dent  ;  yet  she  was  conscious  of  no  vexation  ; 
nor  did  she  feel  any  other  emotion  than  sin- 
cere  joy.  Thus  she  saw  his  appearance  with 
the  same  quiet  pleasure  with  which  she  would 
have  greeted  it  in  the  Corso  or  on  the  Pin- 
cian  Hill. 

This  was  but  for  a  moment  or  so,  when 
she  first  saw  who  it  was.  A  few  moments 
more,  and  these  feelings  were  succeeded  by 
others  of  a  more  violent  character. 

It  was  indeed  Blake,  and  he  was  advan 
cing  at  a  headlong  speed,  his  pallid  face 
showing  an  agony  of  anxiety  and  eagerness. 
To  rescue  Inez,  and  to  avenge  his  own  inju 
ries,  had  brought  him  here  ;  and,  as  he  saw 
her  before  him,  standing  there,  yet  safe,  he  at 
first  was  only  conscious  of  her ;  nor  did  the 
other  figure,  with  its  white  face  of  horror  and 
staring  eyes,  attract  his  regards.  His  only 
impulse  was  to  seize  Inez  in  his  arms — to 
clasp  her  to  his  heart.  His  only  thought  was 
of  that  fate  which  had  been  prepared  for  her 
— the  terrific,  the  appalling,  the  living  grave, 
with  its  awful  accompaniments  !  Even  here, 
already  in  that  grave,  she  was  standing ;  and 
here  he  had  found  her  !  He  could  not  know 
what  there  was  in  her  mind,  nor  could  he  un 
derstand  her  ignorance  of  danger;  but  he 
could  see  in  her  face  her  innocent  fearlessness 
and  the  bright  welcome  of  her  glance.  It 
was  infinitely  touching. 

With  an  inarticulate  cry  he  caught  the 
astounded  Inez  in  his  arms,  and  pressed  her 
to  his  heart  again  and  again.  She — over 
whelmed  with  amazement  at  such  unexpected 
passion  and  vehemence ;  bewildered  at  such 


treatment  from  a  man  whom  she  certainly 
knew  as  her  lover,  but  who  yet  had  never  de- 
ilared  his  love ;  half  terrified,  yet  not  alto 
gether  displeased — at  first  tried  to  shrink 
away,  and  then  yielded  helplessly.  But,  from 
bis  broken  words  and  exclamations,  she  was 
not  long  in  gathering  suggestions  of  some 
thing  of  that  terrible  doom  which  had  just  now 
been  awaiting  her  here.  A  vague  horror  came 
over  her,  but  in  her  ignorance  and  bewilder 
ment  that  horror  took  no  definite  shape. 

Though  Blake  had  thus  yielded  so  utterly 
to  the  rapture  of  his  soul  at  finding  Inez,  he 
did  not  long  remain  forgetful  of  his  other 
purpose.  Lights  and  footsteps  came  up  from 
behind  him,  and  in  a  few  minutes  two  others 
had  reached  the  spot,  whom  Inez  in  her 
amazement  recognized  as  Kane  and  Gwyn. 
In  the  faces  of  both  there  was  an  expression 
so  awful  that  new  fears  were  awakened  in 
Inez  ;  while  Blake,  roused  by  their  approach, 
turned  away  from  Inez  to  look  for  his  enemy. 

He  had  seen  him  but  a  short  time  before, 
standing  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  staring  at 
him.  As  he  now  looked  that  figure  was  gone, 
but  in  place  of  it  there  was  another. 

It  was  Bessie. 

Her  face  was  of  a  waxen  hue,  her  lips 
bloodless  ;  she  looked  like  a  marble  statue, 
except  for  the  bright  blue  of  her  glorious 
eyes,  which  now  were  fixed  upon  the  party 
before  her,  wide  open,  with  an  expression  of 
childish  wonder. 

"  How  very,  very  funny  !  "  she  said,  at 
last. 

All  the  others  looked  at  her  in  silence. 
There  was  perplexity  in  the  minds  of  Kane 
and  Blake  and  Gwyn  ;  nor  could  they  as  yet 
decide  what  her  part  had  been.  Gwyn's  long 
agony  of  soul  about  her  had  gone  on  increas 
ing,  and  finding  her  here  now  seemed  a  con 
firmation  of  his  worst  suspicions.  For  he 
had  seen  her  coming  down  the  ladder,  and 
knew  that  she  had  allowed  Inez  to  be  taken 
down  first.  That  one  thing  filled  his  mind 
with  anguish. 

"  Sure  but  this  is  an  unexpected  meeting 
entirely,"  said  Bessie,  in  a  simple,  unaffected 
manner ;  "  but  what  in  the  wide  world  has 
happened  to  poor,  dear  grandpapa  ?  " 

At  this  Inez,  with  a  start,  perceived  that 
Magrath  had  disappeared. 

"He  was  here  but  a  few  moments  ago," 
said  she. 

"  He  has  gone,"  said  Blake,  in  a  solemn 


CONCLUSION. 


227 


voice,  "to  his  own  place!"  A  shudder 
passed  through  him,  and  he  paused,  for  he 
thought  of  the  fabled  Onofrio,  and  remem 
bered  that  the  scene  of  his  flight  had  been 
laid  in  this  very  place.  "Inez,"  he  con 
tinued,  looking  upon  her  with  a  gaze  of 
unspeakable  tenderness  and  compassion — 
"  Inez !  0  Inez !  you  little  know  what  you 
have  escaped.  It  is  something  so  appalling 
that  I  cannot  bear  to  tell.  I  should  prefer  to 
put  it  off  to  some  time  when  our  surround 
ings  might  not  be  so  fearful,  but  I  see  that 
it  must  not  be  put  off.  I  must  tell  it  no\v, 
for  we  are  all  here,  and  she  is  here  " — indi 
cating  Bessie — "who  is  so  deeply  implicated, 
and  others  are  here  whose  whole  life  now 
depends  upon  the  answer  she  may  give.  Pre 
pare  yourself,  Inez.  Try  to  bear  what  is 
coming.  In  the  first  place,  answer  me  this  : 
What  was  it  that  brought  you  here  ?  " 

Inez  looked  with  awe  at  the  solemn  face 
of  the  speaker.  Her  voice  was  tremulous  as 
she  replied  to  his  question  : 

"  I  came  down  here  to  pray  at  the  grave 
of  my  dear  papa,  and — " 

"Your  father!"  interrupted  Blake  — 
"  Your  father  !  Do  you  mean  Bc-rnal  Mor- 
daunt  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  have  you  not  heard  the  truth  about 
him  from  her  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"Truth?  what  truth?"  asked  Inez,  full 
of  agitation. 

A  silence  followed.  Bessie  stood  looking 
at  them  as  before,  but  none  of  them  looked 
at  her.  They  averted  their  eyes,  for  this  an 
swer  of  Inez  opened  up  endless  suspicions. 

Blake,  after  a  time,  went  on,  and  told 
Inez  the  whole  truth  about  her  father's  re 
turn  and  death,  of  Bessie's  taking  her  place, 
and  receiving  her  father's  blessing. 

As  the  truth  began  to  dawn  on  her,  Inez 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  Bessie  with  a  look  of  in 
describable  wonder  and  reproach,  while  Bes 
sie  looked  at  her  with  unalterable  placidity. 
As  soon  as  Blake  had  ended,  Inez  asked  her : 

"  0  Bessie  !  is  this  all  true  ?  " 

"  Sure  and  it  is,  then,  Inez  darling,  every 
word  of  it,  and  I'm  glad  it's  out,  for  it's  been 
a  sore  load  on  my  heart  all  the  time,  so  it 
has." 

"  But  why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Sure  it's  because  I  couldn't  bear  to,  Inez 
darling.  You'd  have  thought  of  me  as  a  de 
ceiver — as  a  supplanting  Jacob — when  all  the 


time  I  was  as  innocent  as  a  child.  Reallyi 
Inez  darling,  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  tell 
it,  and  I  was  so  troubled  about  it,  too,  all  the 
time." 

"But  why  did  you  always  talk  as  though 
he  were  buried  here,  and  come  with  me  to 
pray  over  his  grave  ?  " 

"Because,  Inez  darling,  he  is  buried  here, 
with  dear  mamma  and  poor,  dear  Clara.  His 
remains  were  brought  here  from  Mordaunt 
Manor  by  poor,  dear  grandpa  ;  and  oh  !  but 
it's  myself  that's  fairly  heart -broken  with 
anxiety  about  him  this  blessed  moment,  so 
it  is." 

"  He  was  never  brought  here,"  said  Blake, 
sadly;  "none  of  those  graves  are  here.  Do 
you  want  to  know  why  you  wore  brought 
here?  I'll  tell  you — I  must — though  it  is 
torment  even  to  think  of  it." 

And  now  Inez  had  to  listen  to  the  story 
of  Blake.  Under  any  circumstances  such  a 
story  would  have  been  awful,  indeed ;  but 
now,  in  this  place,  to  hear  this  was  more 
than  she  could  bear.  Blake  did  not  dwell 
much  upon  his  sufferings,  but  she  could  ima 
gine  them.  Now,  too,  she  first  learned  the  true 
nature  of  the  Catacombs,  and  how  terribly 
she  had  been  deceived.  Even  though  that 
danger  had  passed  away,  yet  the  very  thought 
of  it  was  so  terrible  that  her  fainting  limbs 
sank  under  her,  and  she  would  have  fallen 
had  not  Blake  supported  her. 

But  the  terror  which  the  thought  of  this 
recent  danger,  and  the  discovery  that  she 
had  been  the  intended  victim  of  Magrath, 
had  given  to  Inez  did  not  seem  to  be  felt  by 
Bessie.  She  stood  there,  pale  as  before,  yet 
with  an  unchanged  face,  listening  to  Blake's 
story,  and  exhibiting  nothing  stronger  than 
a  very  deep  interest  in  his  narrative.  Inez 
marked  her  calmness,  and  she  wondered  to 
herself  what  part  Bessie  had  taken  in  all 
this,  and  turned  her  sad  eyes  over  in  that 
direction.  She  remembered  those  letters  to 
Bessie  which  had  never  been  answered.  She 
recalled  her  former  feelings  about  Magrath, 
and  recollected,  too,  how  Bessie  had  brought 
her  back  into  his  power.  What  did  all  this 
mean?  Yet  the  suspicion  that  rushed  into 
her  mind  was  intolerable,  nor  could  she  bring 
herself  to  put  any  question  to  one  whom  she 
even  yet  believed  to  be  her  sister. 

It  \vas  Blake  who  put  the  question  for 
her.  Turning  to  Bessie,  he  regarded  her  for 
a  few  moments  in  silence,  and  then  said : 


223 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


"  As  I  came  up  I  saw  Inez  standing  here, 
Kevin  Magrath  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder, 
about  to  go  up,  while  you  were  at  the  top 
watching.  Magrath  was  going  up,  and  you 
were  up  there,  and  he  was  going  to  draw  up 
that  ladder,  leaving  Inez  here  as  he  left  me." 
"  Sure  he  never  could  have  done  it  at  all 
at  all,"  cried  Bessie.  "  I  would  never  have  let 
him.  I  think  it  is  too  bad,  and  you  are  very, 
very  unkind  to  say  such  a  thing,  and  it's  too 
bad,  so  it  is.  And  I'll  never  believe,  so  I 
won't,  that  it  really  was  my  poor,  dear 
grandpa  that  betrayed  you,  for  there  isn't  the 
least  harm  in  life  in  him." 

"  What  made  him  go  away  when  he  saw 
me  come?  " 

Bessie  clasped  her  hands,  with  a  look  of 
sudden  pain. 

"  Oh,  it's  lost  he  is  !  Oh,  the  bitter,  bitter 
blow! — o  grandpa  darling!  where  are  you, 
then  ? — Oh,  won't  some  of  you  try  to  save 
him?  Gwynnie  dearest — " 

She  stopped  short  and  looked  earnestly  at 
Gwyn.  But  Gwyn  averted  his  eyes. 

Blake's  last  words  had  strengthened  the 
suspicions  which  Inez  had  begun  to  feel.  Her 
heart  became  hardened  to  Bessie.  Her  atti 
tude,  described  by  Blake,  gave  rise  to  a  be 
lief  in  the  very  worst ;  nor  was  it  hard  to  see 
that  the  one  who  had  supplanted  her  at  Mor- 
daunt  Manor  might  have  betrayed  her  in  the 
Catacombs. 

"  Bessie,"  said  she,  and,  as  she  spoke,  her 
voice  grew  cold  and  hard,  while  the  indignant 
feeling  that  arose  within  her  drove  away  her 
weakness — "  Bessie,  what  makes  you  anxious 
about  this  Magrath  ?  He  is  no  relation  to 
you,  and  you  have  always  believed  that  the 
Catacombs  were  as  safe  as  the  upper  streets." 
"  Oh,  sure,  Inez  dear,  but  how  can  I  be 
lieve  they're  safe  now,  after  that  awful  story  ? 
It's  fairly  heart-broken  I  am  with  the  terror 
of  it.  And  oh  !  if  he  isn't  my  dear  grand 
papa,  he  is  rny  best  and  kindest  friend  and 
guardian,  so  he  is." 

"  What  made  you  give  that  shriek  ?  You 
must  then  have  been  afraid  about  him."  This 
question  was  put  by  Blake,  in  whose  ears  that 
shriek  had  rung  as  he  caught  Inez  in  his 
arms. 

"  Sure  and  I  was  afraid  he'd  be  lost,"  said 
Bessie,  "  for  he  went  off  in  the  dark,  without 
his  lantern." 

"  Then  you  knew  that  the  Catacombs 
were  a  dangerous  place  before  you  heard  Dr. 


Blake's  story,"  said  Inez.  "  Yet  you  al 
ways  spoke  as  though  they  were  a  common 
thoroughfare." 

"  Not  these  lowest  stories,  Inez  darling," 
said  Bessie.  "  Poor  dear  grandpa — for  I 
really  must  call  him  so — always  made  me  un 
derstand  that  they  were  very,  very  dangerous, 
and  really  scarcely  ever  used.  And  I  didn't 
tell  you,  because  I  didn't  wish  to  make  you 
feel  badly,  so  I  didn't,  Inez  darling." 

"  0  Bessie  !  "  said  Inez,  "  I  would  give  all 
I  have  if  I  could  feel  toward  you  as  I  used  to. 
But  I  remember  a  thousand  little  things  which 
show  that  you  have  never  been  candid.  Why 
did  you  take  the  name  of  Inez  when  my  poor 
papa  came  home  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  sure,  Inez  darling,  it  was  that  very 
thing  that  always  made  me  have  the  sore 
heart,  and  I  couldn't  bear  to  tell  you ;  but  I 
knew  how  he  hated  me,  and  I  longed  for  his 
love,  and  so  I  met  him,  not  as  his  hated 
daughter  Bessie,  but  as  his  loved  daughter 
Inez." 

Inez  turned  away.  She  felt  bewildered, 
and  did  not  know  what  to  say.  She  trusted 
Bessie  no  longer;  yet  Bessie  thus  far  had 
triumphantly  maintained  her  innocence. 

"His  daughter!"  said  Blake. — "Inez, 
that  is  all  a  fabrication  of  our  enemy  Magrath. 
My  mother  has  told  me  all.  She  was  with 
your  mother  when  she  died.  There  never 
was  any  other  child  but  yourself  and  Clara. 
And,  as  to  the  one  who  has  taken  your  place, 
do  not  let  any  sisterly  feelings  shield  her  from 
your  suspicions,  for,  by  minute  inquiries 
about  her,  my  mother  feels  certain  that  she 
is  Bessie  Magrath,  the  daughter  of  Kevin  Ma 
grath.  It  was  for  her  that  he  labored.  She 
thus  personated  you,  took  your  name,  wel 
comed  your  father,  who  died  believing  in  her. 
She  is  the  one  who  has  defrauded  you  out  of 
your  father's  home,  and  your  father's  heart." 

At  this  Inez  was  so  astounded  that  she 
had  not  one  word  to  say.  This  disclosure 
completed  the  revolution  of  feeling  that  had 
been  going  on  in  her ;  the  strange  suspicions 
of  her  Paris  prison  were  turned  from  Saun- 
ders  to  Bessie ;  and  it  seemed  now  to  her 
that  the  minute  knowledge  which  Magrath 
had  possessed  of  her  life  and  feelings  had  not 
been  communicated  to  him  by  her  servant, 
but  rather  by  her  friend  and  confidante.  Per 
haps  it  was  her  assistance  that  had  put  her 
first  in  Magrath's  power.  Having  learned  the 
truth  about  her  father,  she  was  now  able  to 


CONCLUSION. 


229 


estimate  that  Paris  plot  to  its  full  extent,  and 
the  confederate  whom  Magrath  must  hav 
had  seemed  to  be  Bessie.  And  yet — and  ye 
— Bessie's  innocent  face,  her  winning  ways 
her  loving  words  !— but  then,  had  she  not  de 
frauded  her  of  her  dearest  and  holiest  treas 
ure— a  father's  dying  blessing  ? 

Bessie  heard  Blake  without  interrupting 
him,  and  with  a  childlike  wonder. 

"  Well,  Dr.  Blake,"  said  she,  "  I'm  sure 
I  don't  really  see  how  your  mamma  can 
know  all  about  that,  and  know  better  than 
my  dear  grandpa.  I'm  sure  I've  always  be 
lieved  that  I  was  Inez  Elizabeth  Mordaunt, 
and  that  Mordaunt  Manor  was  mine.  I'm 
sure  dear  grandpa  wouldn't  deceive  me  so, 
and  tell  such  wicked,  wicked  stories,  so  he 
wouldn't ;  and  I'm  sure  I  shouldn't  be  sorry 
at  all  at  all,  so  I  wouldn't,  if  it  were  to  be 
really  as  you  say,  and  if  dear  grandpa  was  to 
turn  out  to  be  my  own  papa,  for  really  I  love 
him  like  a  papa  ;  and  oh,  where  is  he  now  ? 
and  why,  oh,  why  won't  some  one  go  after 
him  ?  Gwynnie  dear  !  Oh,  my  dear  darling 
own  Gwynnie !  " 

They  all  stood  looking  at  her :  Blake  cold 
and  utterly  unbelieving  in  her ;  Inez  alienated 
and  indignant ;  Kane  stern  and  austere  and 
solemn  as  Fate.  But  Bessie  regarded  only 
Gwyn. 

He  had  seen  her  as  he  came  up  to  this 
place,  but  had  averted  his  eyes  ;  nor  had  he 
given  her  one  look  since.  He  had  heard 
every  word.  Dark  recollections  and  sus 
picions  had  arisen  in  the  mind  of  Inez,  but 
these  were  as  nothing  when  compared  with 
those  that  arose  within  his  mind.  He  had 
come  and  found  her  here,  and  the  sight  of  her 
had  been  enough.  Not  one  word  of  excuse 
or  of  exculpation  or  of  explanation  that  she 
had  uttered,  not  the  white  innocence  of  her 
face,  nor  the  childlike  wonder  of  her  expres 
sion,  nor  the  steadfast  and  open  gaze  of  her 
glorious  eyes,  nor  the  unembarrassed  ease  of 
her  manner,  could  shake  in  the  slightest  de 
gree  the  conclusion  to  which  he  had  come. 
As  he  stood  there  the  breach  that  already  ex- 
isted  between  him  and  her  widened  every 
moment  with  every  new  thought  of  his  mind, 
until  at  last  it  had  grown  to  be  a  great  gulf 
fixed  between  them — impassable  forever  ! 

These  thoughts  were  terrible.  The  centre 
of  them  all  was  that  scene,  known  only  to  her 
self  and  him,  on  the  top  of  the  cliff,  where  Kane 
hung  suspended.  The  dread  suspicion  that 


then  had  flashed  across  his  mind  and  caused 
him  to  strike  her  down,  now  revived  in  all  its 
force  ;  from  these  his  mind  recurred  to  other 
recollections,  all  of  which  assumed  a  new 
meaning.  Every  act  of  her  life— her  sudden 
arrival  at  Mordaunt  Manor— her  attitude  tow 
ard  her  supposed  father— her  flight  from  him 
self—her  proposal  to  protract  the  separation 
so  as  to  be  with  Inez — her  request  that  he 
should  bring  Kane  to  Rome — all  rose  before 
him  full  of  appalling  meaning.  Why  did  she 
remain  with  Inez  ?— to  bring  her  here  !  Why 

did  she  wish  him  to  bring  Kane  to  Rome  ? 

to  use  him  as  a  decoy  in  completing  the  work 
in  which  she  had  failed  on  the  cliff!  Upon 
these  conclusions  his  mind  grew  fixed ;  nor 
could  the  recollection  of  her  love  and  gentle 
ness  and  tenderness  shake  him  from  them. 

So  that  now,  when  Bessie  turned  from  the 
others  to  him,  and  made  this  direct  appeal  in 
her  own  old  tcne  of  love  and  confidence,  he 
raised  his  head  and  turned  his  eyes  upon  her. 
The  face  which  he  thus  turned  showed  all  the 
anguish  which  he  was  suffering  ;  his  brow  was 
dark  with  fixed  and  unalterable  gloom  ;  and, 
>n  the  stony  look  which  met  her  eyes,  might 
36  seen  despair.  It  was  but  for  a  moment 
;hat  he  looked  at  her,  and  then  he  was  about 
:o  say  something,  but  he  was  interrupted  by 
vane. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  after  all,  he  is  a  fellow. 
3reature  ;  and,  for  my  part,  I  don't  want  him 
o  perish  here.  We've  come  prepared  for  emer 
gencies — so,  Gwyn,  what  do  you  say  ?  Let's 
mroll  our  string,  and  explore.  You  take  the 
adder,  and  I'll  take  the  clew.  But  hadn't 
ou  better  all  go  up  first  ?  " 

"  Me  go  up  !  "  exclaimed  Bessie.     "  And 
»oor  dear  grandpa  as  good  as  lost,  and  me 
he  heart-broken  girl  that  I  am  !     What  a 
very,   very  strange   proposal!      It's   myself 
that  would  far  rather  go  with  you,  so  I  would, 
and  oh,  I  do  so  wish  that  you  would  let  me." 
"  No,"  said  Kane  ;  "  you  would  be  an  in- 
cumbrance.     We  must  go  alone." 

Blake  would  have  been  glad  to  get  Inez 
into  the  upper  world,  but  Bessie  was  firm  in 
her  decision ;  and,  as  they  could  not  leave  her 
here,  nor  let  her  embarrass  Kane's  movements, 
they  had  to  wait  with  her.  So  Kane  took  the 
clew  and  lamp,  and  walked  on,  unrolling  the 
string  as  he  went,  while  Gwyn  followed,  with 
his  lamp  and  the  ladder.  He  passed  Bessie 
without  a  word,  nor  did  he  look  at  her, 
though  she  was  standing  close  by  the  ladder 


230 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


as  he  took  it  down.  Bessie  watched  the  two 
as  they  went  far  up  the  passage-way  until 
they  disappeared  in  the  distance. 

Then  she  turned  around  with  a  little  sigh. 
"I'm  sure,"  said  she,  "one  would  think 
that  poor  dear  Gwynnie  had  got  over  all  af 
fection  for  me." 

After  this  she  relapsed  into  silence,  and 
stood  there,  her  face  turned  in  the  direction 
where  Kane  and  Gwyn  had  gone.  Basil  and 
Inez  occasionally  conversed  in  low  whispers, 
but  they  addressed  no  remark  to  Bessie.  So 
these  three  remained  for  nearly  an  hour,  un 
til  at  length  a  light  appeared  far  up  the  pas 
sage-way,  and  Bessie  advanced  a  few  steps  in 
eager  anxiety.  After  a  time  an  exclamation 
of  disappointment  escaped  her. 
There  were  only  two  figures  ! 
Soon  Kane  and  Gwyn  reached  the  spot, 
Gwyn  standing  aloof. 

"We  have  found  nothing,"  said  Kane, 
"  and  have  come  back  to  make  preparations 
for  a  more  thorough  search.  I  propose  now 
that  we  go  up,  and  let  the  ladies  find  some 
place  of  safety.  We  can  then  find  others  to 
come  down  and  help  us  here.  Meanwhile,  I 
have  left  the  clew,  as  far  as  it  ran,  on  the 
floor.  We  can  also  leave  the  ladder  here, 
and  some  lanterns  with  matches." 

This  proposal  was  agreed  to  at  once,  and 
they  all  ascended.  Blake  led  the  way  to  the 
well-remembered  opening.  Inez  walked  by 
his  side.  Bessie  followed,  silent  and  pensive. 
Then  came  Kane.  Last  of  all,  Gwyn.  On 
reaching  the  house,  they  went  to  the  upper 
rooms,  where  Blake  perceived,  to  his  surprise, 
the  signs  of  long  occupation. 

To  his  offer  that  the  ladies  should  leave, 
Bessie  gave  a  positive  refusal. 

"Leave,  is  it?"  said  she;  "and  me  ex- 
pecting  my  dear  grandpa  every  minute  ?  Why, 
really,  how  very,  very  absurd !  And  you,  Inez ; 
why,  what  can  you  possibly  be  thinking  of? 
You  won't  leave  me  this  way,  will  you,  dar 
ling  ?  It'll  be  so  very,  very  lonely,  and  so 
awfully  sad  to  have  nobody  but  poor,  dear 
old  Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin." 

Inez  said  but  little.  Blake  had  told  her 
of  lodgings  where  she  would  be  safe ;  he  had 
also  told  her  of  the  letter  that  he  had  written 
to  his  mother,  and  his  expectation  that  she 
would  come  to  Home.  He  also  found  time 
to  tell  her  about  Clara.  So  that,  even  if 
there  had  been  no  other  feeling,  the  excite 
ment  of  Inez  about  this  long-lost  sister,  and 


her  intense  desire  to  see  her,  would  of  itself 
have  drawn  her  away.  But,  apart  from  this, 
it  was  impossible  now  that  she  should  ever 
again  consent  to  live  under  the  same  roof  with 
Bessie.  Inez,  therefore,  went  with  Basil  to 
the  lodging-house  already  mentioned,  where 
he  left  her. 

They  then  communicated  with  the  police, 
and  a  detachment  of  men  was  furnished,  com 
petent  for  the  purpose,  who  accompanied 
them  to  the  Catacombs.  Here  a  long,  pain 
ful,  and  most  exhaustive  search  was  made. 

But  of  the  fugitive  they  found  not  a 
trace. 

The  mournful  news  was  communicated  to 
Bessie  by  Kane.  Gwyn  still  held  aloof.  Bes 
sie's  face  wore  a  look  of  the  deepest  possible 
distress,  and  she  was  silent  for  a  long  time. 

"  Sure,"  said  she,  with  a  little  sigh,  "  it's 
myself  that's  got  the  sore  heart,  and  I  cannot 
help  feeling  very,  very  uneasy ;  and  it's  really 
awful,  you  know,  dear  Kane ;  but,  after  all, 
poor,  dear  grandpa  is  so  awfully  clever  that 
he'll  find  his  way  out  of  it  yet.  So,  I'll  wait 
here,  and  try  to  hope  for  the  best.  But,  do 
you  know,  Kane  dear,  it's  awfully  lonely  here, 
with  only  poor,  dear  old  Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin ; 
and  I'm  awfully  sorry  that  dear,  darling  Inez 
took  such  a  dislike  to  the  house,  and  I  do 
wish  she  would  come  and  see  me,  so  I  do ;  or 
tell  me  where  she  is.  And  oh,  how  good  it  is 
for  you  and  dear,  darling  Gwynnie  to  take 
such  pains  about  poor,  dear  grandpa !  And 
tell  dear,  darling  Gwynnie  that  my  poor  little 
brains  have  been  so  upset  by  all  these  long 
stories  that  I  don't  know  hardly  where  I  am. 
I'm  not  papa's  daughter,  it  seems,  and  I'm  no 
relation  to  my  darling  sister;  and  sure,  I'm 
beginning  to  expect  to  hear  next  that  I'm  not 
dear  old  Gwynnie's  wife.  And  that  would  be 
so  very,  very  sad ! " 

Bessie  ended  this  in  a  plaintive  voice,  and 
looked  mournfully  at  Kane  with  her  large 
blue  eyes.  They  were  full  of  pathos,  and 
Kane  felt  very  much  perplexed  and  puzzled, 
after  all,  about  Bessie. 

Kane  went  away,  with  his  mind  full  of 
speculations  about  Bessie,  recalling  her  as  he 
had  known  her  at  Ruthven  Towers,  and  try 
ing  in  vain  to  find  some  way  by  which  she 
could  be  reconciled  with  her  husband.  But 
these  thoughts  were  all  driven  out  by  new 
ones,  which  were  suggested  by  certain  infor 
mation  which  he  received  from  Blake. 

For  Blake,  on  leaving  the  Catacombs,  af- 


CONCLUSION. 


231 


ter  this  last  vain  search  after  the  missin 
man,  had  gone  to  the  lodgings  where  Ine 
now  was,  to  inquire  after  her  welfare ;  anc 
on  arriving  there,  had  to  his  amazement  founi 
his  mother.  With  her  was  Clara,  who  ha< 
already  made  herself  known  to  Inez,  and,  a 
the  very  time  of  his  arrival,  the  two  sister 
were  explaining  to  one  another  all  abou 
their  respective  past.  Clara  was  not  a  Sister 
after  all.  She  had  never  taken  the  vows,  and 
no  sooner  had  Mrs.  Wyverne  heard  this,  than 
she  resolved  to  effect  a  reunion  between  thos 
two  who  had  been  so  strangely  divided,  am 
who  still  felt  such  undying  love.  To  do  thi 
in  the  shortest  and  best  way,  she  concludec 
to  persuade  Clara  to  accompany  her  to  he 
own  lodgings.  This  Clara  did,  after  a  brief 
explanation  to  the  good  "Sisters."  On  ar 
riving  there,  Mrs.  Wyverne  had  found  her 
son's  letter.  She  had  not  been  able  to  leave 
immediately,  but  had  remained  behind,  per 
suading  Clara  to  accompany  her  to  Rome, 
To  this  Clara  at  length  consented,  and,  with 
her  desire  to  meet  her  husband,  was  mingled 
anxiety  about  her  sister.  The  sister  had  been 
found,  but  the  meeting  with  the  husband  had 
yet  to  be. 

Mrs.  Wyverne  told  Blake  every  thing,  and 
urged  him  to  prepare  Kane  for  the  meeting 
in  whatever  way  he  might  think  best.  Blake, 
after  some  consideration,  judged,  from  his 
knowledge  of  Kane's  character  and  feelings, 
that  the  best  way  to  prepare  him  would  be  to 
teU  him  the  simple  truth.  This  he  decided 
to  do;  and  thus,  on  seeing  Kane,  this  was 
the  information  which  he  gave,  and  which 
put  a  complete  stop  for  the  time  to  the  spec 
ulations  of  the  latter  about  Bessie. 

Over  that  meeting  between  these  two,  who 
had  loved  so  well  and  suffered  so  much,  it  is 
best  to  draw  a  veil.  Clara's  self-reproaches, 
about  what  she  considered  her  cowardice  and 
treachery,  were  not  justified  by  the  opinion 
of  the  one  who  was  most  concerned  ;  and  her 
fears  about  Kane's  indignation  proved  un 
founded.  It  was.  much  for  Kane  to  be  freed 
from  the  remorse  which  for  years  had  blight 
ed  his  life ;  it  was  far  more  to  receive  as  ris 
ing  from  the  dead  one  over  whose  memory  he 
had  wept,  and  over  whose  supposed  grave  he 
had  mourned.  In  the  interchange  of  confi 
dence  and  the  recital  of  their  mutual  experi 
ences  much  had  to  be  explained ;  and  among 
these  explanations  was  that  grave  itself;  but 
this  was  at  last  accounted  for,  satisfactorily 


enough  to  their  minds,  by  the  peculiar  char 
acter  of  Kevin  Magrath,  who  always  did  his 
work  thoroughly,  and  who,  if  he  wished  the 
death  of  Clara  to  be  believed  in,  would  at 
once  find  some  means  to  procure  a  grave 
which  might  pass  for  hers.  Kane  thus  found 
that  he  had  been  mourning  and  praying  over 
the  grave  of  a  stranger,  or  perhaps  over  a 
box  of  stones,  at  the  very  time  when  the  one 
whom  he  mourned  had  over  and  over  again 
crossed  his  path — and  at  the  very  time,  indeed, 
when  she  herself  stood  before  him. 

No  sooner  did  Mrs.  Wyverne  hear  about 
Bessie,  and  Kane's  report  of  the  last  inter 
view  with  her,  than  she  determined  to  see  for 
herself  this  young  girl  whose  real  character 
still  remained  so  great  a  puzzle.  She  there 
fore  went  there  with  Blake.  Bessie  was 
mournful,  yet  amiable,  and  received  her  visi 
tors  with  sad  politeness.  She  questioned 
Blake  closely  about  his  search,  and  still 
evinced  a  confidence  in  the  return  of  her 
"dear  grandpa."  Mrs.  Wyverne  expressed 
a  wish  to  see  Mrs.  Lugrin,  whereupon  Bessie 
at  once  summoned  her. 

Mrs.  Lugrin  appeared,  showing  no  change 
from  what  she  had  been  at  Mordaunt  Manor. 
She  entered  the  room  placidly,  and  looked 
around,  when  her  eyes  rested  on  Mrs.  Wy 
verne.  Perhaps  Bessie  had  not  understood 
Mrs.  Wyverne's  true  name  and  position  ;  per 
haps  she  had  not  given  the  right  name  to 
Mrs.  Lugrin;  at  any  rate,  Mrs.  Lugrin  was 
evidently  much  agitated  at  the  sight  of  her. 
She  stood  for  a  moment  staring,  and  then 
sank  into  a  chair. 

Mrs.  Wyverne  was  quite  self-possessed. 
She  surveyed  Mrs.  Lugrin  placidly,  and  then 
said,  in  a  quiet  voice  : 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  meet  you  under  such 
)ainful  circumstances." 

She  would  have  said  more,  but  Mrs.  Lu 
grin  gave  her  no  chance,  for,  rising  suddenly, 
md  without  a  word,  she  abruptly  quitted  the 
•oom,  while  Bessie  looked  on  in  evident  won 
derment.  After  this  Mrs.  Wyverne  and  Blake 
oon  retired. 

"  It  is  as  I  thought,"  said  she  to  Blake. 

This  Mrs.  Lugrin  is  Mrs.  Kevin  Magrath. 

remember  her  perfectly,  and  she  remembers 

me.      Your  Bessie  is   her  daughter — Bessie 

klagrath ! " 

"I  wonder  how  much  she  herself  has 
nown  of  all  this  ?  " 
"  That,"  said  Mrs.  Wyverne,  "  is  to  me  a 


232 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


perfect  puzzle.  Your  account  of  her  makes 
her  seem  guilty ;  but  her  own  face  and  man 
ner  make  her  seem  innocent.  I  cannot  de 
cide,  and  it  will  always  remain  a  mystery  to 
me  whether  she  is  innocent  or  guilty.  For 
she  may  have  been  brought  up  in  the  belief 
that  she  was  Bernal  Mordaunt's  daughter, 
and  may  have  acted  throughout  in  perfect 
good  faith." 

Blake  said  nothing.  His  own  opinion 
about  Bessie  was  most  decided  and  most  hos 
tile  ;  yet  so  plausible  had  been  Bessie's  own 
vindication  of  herself  that  he  hardly  knew 
what  to  say. 

Two  days  after  this  Gwyn  received  a  note. 
It  was  from  Bessie,  and  ran  as  follows  : 

"  I  have  been  hoping  against  hope,  Gwyn- 
nie  darling,  about  poor  dear  grandpa,  but  I'm 
afraid  I  must  give  him  up.  It's  awfully  sad, 
so  it  is,  and  I'm  quite  heart-broken,  so  I  am. 
I  cannot  bear  to  stay  here  any  longer,  so  do 
not  think  it  strange,  dear,  if  I  tell  you  that  I 
am  going  away.  I  am  going  with  dear  old 
Mrs.  Lugrin  to  her  home.  It  is  in  Ballyshan- 
non,  near  Limerick.  We  are  poor  now,  you 
and  I,  Gwynnie  darling,  and  dear  Kane  is  the 
baronet  and  the  owner  of  Ruthven  Towers, 
where  we  were  so  happy ;  and  dear  Inez  has 
Mordaunt  Manor,  where  dear  papa  died.  It  is 
all  so  very,  very  strange,  and  so  awfully  sad, 
that  it  seems  like  a  dream.  But  you,  Gwyn 
nie  darling,  love  me  still,  I  know  well,  and 
this  is  the  only  thing  in  life  that  comforts 
me.  You'll  have  to  get  your  own  living,  dear, 
and  I  will  be  patient,  and  wait  till  you  find 
something  to  do,  and  can  make  a  home  for 
your  poor  Bessie.  And  I  shall  always  be 
looking  forward  to  the  time  when  you  will 
come  for  me,  Gwynnie  darling,  and  I  will  be 
content  and  happy  wherever  you  may  take 
me.  I  feel  very  sad,  dear,  and  it  seems  to  me 
that  you  have  not  been  quite  so  kind  of  late 
as  you  used  to  be,  but  I  know  you  love  me, 
and  you  have  all  the  love  of  your  poor  little 
girl.  Give  my  love  to  darling  Inez.  I  should 
like  to  see  her,  but  am  too  sad.  Give  my 
love  to  dear  Kane  also,  and  tell  him  I  shall 
never  forget  his  kindnesa  about  poor  dear 
grandpa.  You  will  let  me  hear  from  you 
soon,  Gwynnie  darling,  and  come  soon  to  your 

poor  little  loving 

"BESSIE." 

It  was  a  very  sad  letter.     There  were  also 
blots  on  it  that  seemed  like  tears.     Gwyn  was 


moved  most  deeply,  and  never  showed  it  to 
any  one ;  yet  he  did  not  do  as  he  once  would 
have  done* — he  did  not  hasten  away  after  the 
beautiful  young  bride  who  had  sent  him  so 
mournful  and  so  loving  an  appeal.  No  ;  the 
decision  to  which  he  had  come  in  the  Cata 
combs  was  unalterable,  and  he  prepared  with 
stern  intensity  of  purpose  to  carry  it  into  exe 
cution. 

This  decision  he  announced  to  Kane.  It 
was  to  go  to  America,  where  he  proposed  to 
work  out  his  own  fortune  in  any  way  which 
circumstances  might  present.  Kane  tried  to 
dissuade  him,  but  in  vain.  Gwyn  was  not  tc 
be  moved. 

"  It's  no  use,1'  said  he.  "  It's  all  up  be 
tween  her  and  me.  I've  got  nothing  to  live 
for.  Ruthven  Towers  is  yours,  and  you're 
the  baronet.  I'm  an  outcast  now.  You  don't 
know  all  that's  taken  place  between  her  and 
me,  you  know.  We  shall  never  meet  again ; 
and  still  I  love  her  as  well  as  ever.  I  can't 
help  that.  Don't  try  to  persuade  me.  It's 
no  use.  As  to  money,  there's  enough  for  me 
in  a  little  property  of  mother's  that  I  found 
out  only  last  year.  I'll  take  that,  and  it'll  be 
enough  for  me  to  grub  along  with." 

In  fact,  Gwyn  showed  himself  beyond  the 
reach  of  argument,  and  Kane  could  only  con 
clude  to  yield  to  him  for  the  present,  and  hope 
for  better  things  in  the  future.  So  he  made 
Gwyn  promise  to  write  him  at  times  to  let 
him  know  his  movements. 

Gwyn  left  Rome  on  the  following  day,  and 
went  to  America. 

In  a  few  days  the  rest  of  them  returned 
to  England. 

Sir  Kane  and  Lady  Ruthven  went  to  Ruth 
ven  Towers. 

Basil  Wyverne  was  married  to  Inez  Mor 
daunt,  and  lived  at  Mordaunt  Manor.  His 
mother  lived  with  them.  He  found  that  Hen- 
nigar  Wyverne's  estate  was  immense.  How 
much  of  this  had  been  gained  from  the  Mor 
daunt  property  he  could  never  find  out ;  but 
his  marriage  with  Inez  prevented  him  from 
feeling  any  uneasiness  on  this  score.  Clara 
had  superior  claims  to  Mordaunt  Manor,  but 
to  these  she,  as  well  as  her  husband,  was  ut 
terly  indifferent,  and  insisted  on  transferring 
them  to  Inez.  By  this  arrangement  the  two 
sisters  were  able  to  be  near  one  another,  and 
their  husbands  were  also  able  to  perpetuate 
the  warm  friendship  which  they  had  first 
formed  in  Paris. 


CONCLUSION. 


233 


Out  of  all  these  events  there  remained 
two  things  which  never  ceased  to  be  a  puzzle 
to  Kane  Ruthven. 

One  of  these  was  the  character  of  Bessie. 
His  last  interview  with  her  had  produced  a 
profound  impression  on  him,  and  her  gentle 
manner,  her  innocent  words,  and  her  sweet 
expression,  had  revived  for  a  time  those  sen 
timents  of  affectionate  admiration  which  he 
had  conceived  toward  her  at  Ruthven  Tow- 
ers.  Her  own  exculpation  of  herself  seemed 
to  him  to  be  more  just  than  the  others  sup 
posed,  and  he  could  not  help  clinging  to  the 
thought  that  she  had  been  deceived  rather 
than  deceiving. 

The  other  puzzle  was  the  disappearance 
of  Kevin  Magrath.  The  most  thorough  search 
had  revealed  no  trace  of  him.  To  Kane's 
mind  this  disappearance  was  too  utter.  Had 
he  perished,  he  thought  that  some  trace  of 
his  remains  would  have  been  found.  He  could 


not  help  believing  that  he  had  recovered 
from  his  first  panic,  and  had  found  some 
mode  of  effecting  his  escape;  he  reflected 
that  he  was  possibly  as  familiar  with  these 
passages  as  he  had  pretended  to  be,  and  that 
so  cool  and  keen  a  spirit  was  not  likely  to 
yield  permanently  to  a  shock  of  terror.  Con^ 
sequently  Kane  held  the  theory  of  Bessie's 
innocence  and  of  Kevin  Magrath's  escape. 
Moreover,  he  believed  that  they  were  both 
living  very  comfortably  together  as  father  and 
daughter  with  Mrs.  Kevin  Magrath,  the  wife 
and  mother,  somewhere  in  Ireland — in  Bal- 
lyshannon,  or  some  other  place. 

This  opinion  Clara  shared  with  him. 

But  all  the  others  believed  implicitly  in 
the  guilt  of  Bessie  and  in  the  death  of  Kevin 
Magrath. 

For  my  own  part,  if  I  may  offer  an  opin 
ion  before  retiring  from  the  scene,  I  would 
simply  remark  that  it  is  an  open  question. 


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